


Ivar the Boneless Imagines

by xHonestSecretsx



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: F/M, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-08-26 18:39:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 44
Words: 32,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16686829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xHonestSecretsx/pseuds/xHonestSecretsx
Summary: A collection of my Ivar the Boneless imagines from fics, short imagines and drabbles.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> These fics may have errors in tenses as I don't have the patience to go back and fix every single shot that I've done in the last year.

Ideally, he wanted someone unlike Lagertha.

A dainty, witty woman that was unlike her. Yet somehow– as the door opened, like it usually did at this late hour, in you came. Your ankles likely swollen, dirt in all his favourite places and mucky hair. You were back from your father’s farm.

“Look who remembered her husband.” Ivar remarks causticly, his fingers dirty by the protein between his digits. You shed the trousers and tunic where you stand and reach for a wide bowl of water. Your tired eyes afix on him as you pin up your long braids, running a moistened towel across your nape.

“Hello to you too, my love.” You hum. Ivar pushes himself to stand, limping forward with each step rougher than the last. He walks forward to take the wet rag off your hands.

“Let me do it. You’ll miss the worst of it.” He growls, proceeding to clean you top to bottom. Despite thick fingers, he tenderly works the cloth between the creases of your arms, legs and thighs. When he encounters more sensuous areas, his attention lingers.

“Have you missed me?” You ask, watching as he moistens his cloth to bring back to your hand. He scrubs your wedding ring absolutely pristine. With you satisfactorily clean, he pushes you to lay upon the bed. His eyes roam over your every dip and curve to inspect his work. When satisfied Ivar tosses the rag to the ground, dragging himself to top the bed. He places your ankles a top of his lap, rubbing the swollen ankles in his fingertips.

“He works you too hard. This is your home to care for, not his.” Ivar says.

Perhaps he did. Too many hours of tilling the earth, praying to Freyr, making sure everything was on task. Your hand came to loosen the clip on your braids, flicking it on Ivar’s deemed side of the bed.

“I can do both.” You say in your defense, giving him a bright smile. You could do it all. You would do it all. A husband wasn’t about to stop you, either.

Ivar snorts, “If he wants a thrall, I will give him one. Otherwise, tell him to stop working you so hard. Or I will.” He remarks bitterly, dragging himself beside you.

“I will tell him,” You roll to face him. “That I have a needy husband.”

Ivar tilts his head toward you beginning to snap back when he realizes the pure exhaustion writ over your face. “Come here.” He rasps. His arms drift behind his head and sneakily, all too quickly, one of his arms sneaks behind your back. A stubborn, prickly cuddle were the cuddles you were most accustomed to.


	2. Not Yours

“Does he know?”

It was your worst nightmare to know that Ubbe had come back. Worse so with your young family in the other room, waiting for you to return. You were caught between the wall and Ubbe’s taut muscles pinning you in place. Your cup had gone empty, dropped by your fingertips when you groan out to him.

“Ubbe, I’m too sober to deal with you.” You sigh.

“Is she my daughter?” He asks, causing your hand to come over his mouth. You effectively silence him, dropping your hands back to your sides where you inhale a little roughly.

“She’s not. Please… go away.” You lie, exhaling sharply. You know you’re lying too. How could Ubbe come back, walk in and tear your family up? It wasn’t going to happen. Ubbe’s eyes hold yours sternly as if he knows you’re lying. The lies are too much to take when you look away, knowing that your love child was in fact his.

“She was mine.” Behind you, your husband limps forward wrought by the pain in his side from sparring to the best of his ability with your younger sons that you had with Ivar. Three sons and Ubbe’s daughter. You only wished she was his too. “She is mine, brother.”

He stumbles forward, breaking Ubbe’s hold on your arm. “I claimed her into my home as an Ivarsdottir. That makes her my daughter, not yours.” He says.

Blood or not, his niece or not, Ivar brought her up with you. He was her father. Ivar’s hand snakes around your waist, prideful as Ubbe falls silent. Your heart swells with pride at his blatant claim to your person.

With a jerk back towards the room, Ivar throws behind his shoulder. “And (Y/N) is my wife, not yours.”


	3. NSFW: Don't Need It

t never happened until the alliance.

Your body never presented in any way.

No one knew what you were, including you! But as the heat flushed up from the sore ache of your sex up through your belly to harden your nipples, you felt it. You knew what a great need you had as the feverish ache caused a breakout of a thin layer of sweat over your body. You could only describe it as needing. Needing the touch. Needing the sex. Needing his knot.

“Why… why?” You groan over the soft furs of your bed. Your scent filled through the room with great excitement. And god— you could feel him coming closer.

“Miserable yet?” He asks in the doorway of the room.

_You’re an omega. You need a knot._

_I don’t need anything! You insisted._

And yet, here you are, your walls clamping tight. You swore you were going to die if he didn’t come closer. And he did—

Limping into the room while you cried out louder. The men gathered outside the door were cut off when Ivar slammed it beside him, dragging himself up on top of you.

“This is your fault.” Your legs kick out, “Everything made sense… then you came. Now I can’t… I can’t.”

He didn’t even need you to finish his sentence. Your hips ground up to him, soaking his trousers in your sweet wetness. The smell of your arousal has dug deep under his skin, drawing his clothed hips to rut against yours.

“As I told you.” He says, “Omegas need knots.”


	4. NSFW: Butt Bite

“I did do that for you, wife.”

You knew that your husband would bring up what he did to get what he wanted. What he needed out of you. His fingers cling to the round of your ass where minutes ago, he finished inside of your slick cunt. But now, those naughty fingers form a flat open hand rippling off of your ass with an echoing smack through the room.

“But does it have to be that?” You whine, dipping your head back against your folded arms.

“It will only take a second. You dominated me for hours.”

His fingers give you incentive. He breaches your entrance, delving his fingers within your still-sensitive pussy. Your walls cling to the few fingers that work to stretch your cunt, sliding in and out with the aid of his creamy seed and your own slick. Your shoulders square with the trickle of pleasure quickly threatening to spill open like a dam with every thrust.

His fingers still. “Let me do it.” He growls, slipping his fingers away from your hole.

“Fuck, oh, bite me then!”

And early the next morning when you sit beside your husband, you regret the purplish and red bruising of a suspiciously teeth like indention over your ass.


	5. Marry Me, Farmer

The busiest time of the year was here again. Pull the plow, plant the seed, bless the plants and worship Freyr for your land. You woke early in the morning and went to bed later than intended. In fact, there would be no time to go into town for the next week or two. Your trousers were damp with not only water for the crop but the dirt off the mounds you made to the side. Dirt coated your braids held high into a ponytail and you were sure other places would be just as bad when you bathed later.

When he would still be watching you.

“This would be easier if you would marry me, (Y/N).”

You worked by dragging the plow, groaning with the blisters on your fingers protesting the movement of your body with your cattle. He sat on top of you mound of hay like a king on his stoop, ever judgemental of the way you denied him over and over again. Somehow, despite Sigurd’s harsh words, he was still here looking to harvest you as his bride.

“Perhaps so!” You call back over the cattle’s clopping steps. It would be easier to be his bride. To have no worries– or cares in the world. But idle hands were not your hands. You couldn’t stomach simply being a bride. Ivar wears a blank expression, shaking his head lightly side to side.

“I can be a patient man.” Ivar says, folding one arm after another.

Glancing over your shoulder, you shoot him a beaming smile. “Until harvest then.”


	6. Who Was SHE?

You had a flat affect. Discerning what your emotions frequently proved difficult. Would you like to marry me? I suppose. Let’s have children? If you’d like. Another? Sure.

There was nothing Ivar could do to drag out any spiteful emotions. He tried a wise arrange of things from spilling your food, ruining the laundry or smacking your ass in his brother’s presence. His latest attempt went without notice, or so he thought.

“Who was she!”

Your feet slide across the ground, hands at your hips as Ivar plucks up the head of a chess piece between thumb and forefinger. You fling the sopping wet rag in his direction while you hiss out such animated words.

“Who?” He says while ducking away.

Your eyes narrow. “That-that! That whore you kissed!”

Ivar reclines back in his chair, ruffling his sweat slicked hair between his finger tips. “The thrall? Æesa… or was it Frey—“

The last of his sentence was lost on you past the deep, scalding burn of knowing the girls weren’t full of shit. You strip the axe of its place on your belt, whirling it in the air towards your husband. It embeds on the table he plays chess on.

“You’re dead!”

He drops out of his chair, cackling as you advance on him with several long swoops of your legs. Finally, some emotion on your behalf.


	7. As Many As There Are Stars

The lighter of habits you enjoyed was cooking. Being a shieldmaiden was one thing but being at home with your family was something that couldn’t be replaced by the wars your husband incited. The newest addition of an oven had gone over well and bread seemed to be in constant demand by both young and old.

“Bread, bread, bread!” A boy whizzes into the room behind you in a flash of deep blond hair. He speeds with the force of an axe, whizzing about until he stands in front of you. Two other boys tipped up on their toes, reaching up with little hands gripping and releasing thin air.

“Ma!” The smallest of your able children hung on your skirts, digging his head between the space of your legs and thumping his head. The buds of his wail form a long, drawn out shrieking cry.

“Gods, you can’t live on bread and butter alone. It’s a poor man’s meal my loves.” You look past the young children to a bassinet that lay on the ground. The baby stirred in the warmth of thick furs and with a mighty howl he woke up as well. Of course he would.

“Why are you screaming, huh?”

Your skirts lighten as the small boy is hiked up by his tunic into the air. His small limbs flail midair as if swimming and you set down the wooden plate on which you have your freshly buttered bread. Behind you, your husband reclines onto his crutch with one gloved hand tight on the boy’s collar.

“Mother has bread.” The oldest of your sons, Kol, points to your fingers.

“And you think that is why you can come upon her like wolves?” Ivar scrunches his nose tight, forming creases over the bridge. “I’ve told you to be gentle with her above all else.”

Like magic of the gods, the wolves are tame under your husbands fingers. He indeed told him that, if you can recall. Take care of your mother and be witty about the rest around you. You knew his words inside and out by now and as much as you want to be supportive of your husband’s words, you’re a mother yourself.

“Here.” You place a piece of bread into Aasvard’s tiny fingers. He immediately stops his midair flail to take the bread of your fingers. You distribute the bread quickly among the other two and seek to the crib where the youngest squeals in frustration. He’s twisted himself to growl at the wall. The boys scamper off, even Aasvard who doddles around the room with his bread in hand.

“You’re spoiling our sons.” Ivar sits beside you as you take up the baby and plop back down.

“It is hard not giving into them with five so young.” You say, somewhat bitterly adding. “The sooner we stop, the sooner I can-”

“Why would I want to stop?” Ivar’s eyebrows push together, scrunching his shoulders with a shake of his head. “I want as many children and grandchildren as there are stars.”

Of course he would not want to stop– he had an awful habit of convincing you to lay with him shortly after birth. It did not help that you were so fertile and every single time, you ended up just as you did now: with a baby in your arms, correcting a mischievous son and a taut belly in your lap.

“You want how many babies now?”


	8. For My Master

There was an burning ache rooted deep in your lower stomach. It took a moment for you to realize that yes, that was Prince Ivar’s axe that so happened to plant past the chain mail “protecting” your torso into your stomach. Your arms still spread out against Prince Sigurd’s body, shoving him back behind yours. Then, all of your memories flooded back into your body like the literal blade that clogged the gaping wound in your stomach.

“I…I am–am sorry Master.” You whimper. Like floating in the clouds, your head is heavy. Black blotches take over your vision while Sigurd maneuvers you down to the floor, shrieking for a healer off the top of his tongue.

“What have you done?!” Prince Ubbe shrills. Boots bounce the floorboards as both Hvitserk and Ubbe come to your side. The blotches take over quicker and quicker and just before it all goes black, Ivar’s frantic crawl rattled the floorboards.

If only you could squirm away.

When you thought of how you would die, it was always a fate without Valhalla. That wasn’t an option for you. But after your master granted your freedom, you thought being a shieldmaiden would put that dream close into your fingertips.

Light was like an irritant, streaming its warm radiance on your face. You were in and out of consciousness for days, cognitive of nothing until finally that warm light whipped you of you delightful ignorance. Wherever you squirmed, the heat from the light against the heat of furs radiated so uncomfortably your eyes were bound to open.

When they spread open for good, you found Ivar by your side. You flailed manically, a portion of you disarmed every time you saw him– to kick him, fight him, the desire worsened by the second until finally you shrieked for Sigurd.

“Get away!” You scream. The noise echoes through the room and out into the campsite.

“Ssshhh,” Ivar lurches over to grasp your wrists with a cold frown. “He isn’t coming. You’ll burst your stomach wide open, you stupid girl.”

With his broad chest pinning you back against the bed, you wrestled your hands away from his. Ivar sinks back into his chair and stupidly, you ask;

“Stomach?” You pull your skirts up, exposing creamy legs and the curls covering your sex only to find fabric carefully pulled across your stomach. The linen, you recognize, is a bound with pins that belonged to Ivar.

“What… is this?” You ask.

There’s a familiar burn and ache anytime you move. You realized just what the pain, the lethargy and sickness is. As you peel away the bandages, you find a large hole that has been cleaned and shut. By who though? Ivar says nothing, only moving to sit you up by setting your arms on his shoulders. He unravels the bloodied bandages and removes them. Seemingly unmoved he dabs the area with a thin cloth, wet with water. The crusted blood falls away, beating bright red.

“Why are you doing this?” You ask. Ivar retreats to a bowl of meats, forcing it into your hands.

“Eat.” He says.Your hands drop the bowl to your lap, folding your arms one over another. You don’t want to eat– between the ache of your stomach and no appetite, you much rather curl up into a ball.

After a few minutes of his cleaning, he dips his fingers against the wound to apply the slightest amount of pressure. “Ow!” You say, slapping him hard across his hand. “Why would you do that!”

A crease in one of his eyebrows forms as he speaks. “Eat. You need the food to heal.”

You knew as much with the slightest education you received from the healers as a young woman. You also knew that it didn’t make sense for a slave, or a once was slave, to receive this treatment. You consider Ivar’s decision while slowly chewing a bit of meat.

“Why are you doing this Ivar?” You say again while stroking the furs, pondering to the location of your ex-master. This… should have been Sigurd.

Ivar’s fingers dip into a deep slurry of green and other colours, spreading a paste like substance over your puckering wound. “I ought ask you the same. Why did you get involved? To make me feel like an more of an ass?”

Ivar’s voice is free from emotion as if they state a fact. You stopped Ivar from killing Sigurd. But it wasn’t for Ivar or his brothers. It wasn’t for your ex-mistress or anyone else. A long while passes before you speak.

“No! Because… I love my master.” You say.

Ivar’s eyes narrow on your wound. His fingers have long since stopped their movement across your wound. He sneers at the words. How can you be so blindly devoted to Sigurd?

“You are a shieldmaiden. Not a slave.” Ivar responds. Maybe he is right– you are a shieldmaiden. But in your heart, you still regarded Sigurd fondly. Almost too fondly if you would throw yourself in front of an axe flinging through the air.

“And he was a good master. He kept me well cared for and safe — especially from the men. Then when I was free…” You trail off.

“He had you taught to be a great warrior.” Ivar snips. Almost bitterly, you note. It must have been hard for him to hear someone speak so fondly of him. Ivar abruptly gathers the fabric of your dress up against your breasts, motioning for you to hold the fabric. His fingers gently run the strips of fabric across your body. You hiss at the application of the bandage.

“I know, I know.” He whispers. His touch softens.

* * *

“You need to stand.”

Ivar was the sort of caretaker to constantly push you farther. When you didn’t eat enough, he guilts you into eating more. When you weren’t drinking enough, he did the same.

“It still hurts,” You say, turning from your position on the bed to face Ivar. You look down to your thighs with dubious consideration. The wound was healing with Ivar’s constant supervision. It’s burning red ache settled into painful soreness. It’s what you imagine giving birth might feel like: a sore, burning ache. You wanted to try, you really did. Sigurd’s visits were limited with Ivar insisting on taking care of you with no good excuse for why he pushed Sigurd out of this position.

“You won’t fall, I’ll catch you.”

He cautiously reaches a glove clad hand out to you as you scoot closer. Your fingers lace in the empty spaces of his fingers, tremors wracking down your spine as your toes touch the floor for the first time. You scoot yourself to the edge, toes tickling the cool ground. It’s possible you could fall. If you did fall, you worried about taking Ivar down with you. A ridiculous thought that is, as you know Ivar would take your concern as an insult to his manhood. You heard the spiel more than once around Kattegat: a man takes care and preserves his home.

“Come on, (Y/N). I’ve better things to do than worry about you.” Ivar’s lips churn a small smirk. You inhale sharply, pushing yourself off the bed with feet like a newborn’s, bowing down at the pressure placed. You can’t do it. Ivar’s hand immediately jerks around your back to steady your body, losing footing on the ground. The frantic beating of your anxious heart ripples against Ivar’s chest. You reach your hands out through Ivar’s loose hair, fisting it in your hands as you struggle.

“Don’t even think about giving up, shieldmaiden.” He warns, ignoring the tight hold you have on his hair. The pain should have owned you. It should have doubled you both over onto the ground. Instead, your lips curl inwards with sharp huffs of breath. Ivar sits in silence, unwilling to break down and let you give in.

“I won’t.” You say.

Your feet steady.

The next week or so is full of more of the same. Ivar would care for dressing your wound then care for making sure you were up. He could not make you walk, but as you found out, Ivar had an effect that made you want to do better. You wanted to take step after step in the right direction. You wanted to be the perfect girl. It sounded stupid.

* * *

One day, Ivar wasn’t in his chair.

Your gait was a little less than perfect, but it didn’t need to be, it only needed to take you on your way outside. You found Ivar taking time to himself, glaring into a flame that lit up the dark starry night. 

“Why aren’t you inside?” You ask, stepping forward.

Ivar spares glance in your direction. Finding it easier to glare at the red hot flames popping in his eyes, he brings a cup of mead to his lips. “You don’t need me anymore.” Ivar starts, finding it easier to look away. “And… I have other things to do.”

Other things like glaring at a flame or getting drunk. You sat on the ground by his feet, leaning your head onto his trousers. His feet seem to itch because he anxiously taps in response. Almost as if your mere presence sets him into uneasiness.

“What is it Ivar?” You say, a bit more anxiously than you thought the words would come out. Ivar stops drinking with his wrist against his chin.

“It is nothing.” He answers curtly.

If it was so much of nothing, you didn’t want to keep fighting with him. “So be it.” You begin to stand. Your face slides away from his body. As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, he misses the fragments of human contact that for once, didn’t despise him.

Ivar’s hand darts out, grasping your elbow. “You can’t have children anymore.” Ivar blurts all at once in one congealed sentence. You feel him shaking in the tension that filled a welled up in his stomach. All over again, you knew that he felt sorrow.

“Oh.” Your only answer.

“Oh?” Ivar says, incensed. He expected more. He expected you to toss him into the pit of flames or at the very least, beat your fist into his wonderfully high cheekbones. In its place, he received something worse.

“So it was fated.” You say solemnly, knocking down rocks into your knees. The tears welled at the corners of your eyes, but did not fall. His gaze narrowed at the tears, slipping his hold away from your elbow to wipe away a few tears. A near-silent sigh escaped his dry lips, and he pulled his hand back.

“I don’t understand you.” Ivar grips his knees tightly. “You should be enraged.”

You didn’t respond and opted to shrug your shoulders. You didn’t care, you couldn’t care. It was being a slave all over again. You could not marry without consent before. So now why should you care? No one would take a woman who could not have children.

“As a slave, no man would want me to be his wife. Now that my womb is closed, it just… reassures me that–” Your sentence was cut short by Ivar, dropping onto the floor to urgently press his lips against your own. His lips smoothed along your own, a deep but gentle tongueless kiss. You aren’t sure how to reason it. Out of guilt? Spite for his brother?

Ivar pinches your chin, tilting your chin up to look into his eyes once the kiss is broken. He chuckles– pulling his lips back from yours. “There are other ways.” He says. The immeasurable confusion flutters your eyelashes at him. He trains his gaze against yours. Perhaps there were other ways to be a parent, but you never knew that a future would include Ivar.


	9. Take her to Hades

[](https://66.media.tumblr.com/398d923b56f8d8079a1b02e1b4dca3c1/tumblr_inline_pci833TnCj1v19l0n_500.jpg)

It had been some time since your feet touched Earth’s surface. You missed so much about the world above. The wave of flowers through lush green grass when you ran your toes through a valley. Your brothers fighting with one another about whatever the hell it was this time. Or the scene when Hvitserk took to his chariot and cast away the dim night for favor of the glimmering bright sun. It had also been some time since you saw your mother, Lagertha. Though you could imagine how she might be raging at Ragnar now.

* * *

_It wasn’t pleasant here below the Earth’s surface at the heart of the its crust. You sat in the bed chambers you shared with him, tears dripping on the stem of a lovely Narcissus that hadn’t aged a lick in the last month or so. Your mind couldn’t help but to wander back to that night so many nights ago._

_The valley trembled underneath your foot where you gathered fragrant Narcissus for a fat bouquet. The bouquet was for your brother, the sun god Hvitserk and his marriage to a wonderfully bright nymph. At first it seemed like a light earthquake, but when the ground parted into a flightless sensation under your feet, you realized that it wasn’t just a normal tremble. Just like it was never just a mere Narcissus. Your ears were greeted by the powerful clopping of a fleet of horses, but when you saw his feisty blue eyes caught in yours, your lips parted in a breathless scream._

_He cast his gloved hand out of his chariot and dragged you inside by your arm with moments to spare. The earth came over your bodies like a great wave. The god of the underworld turned his sights back upon the dim light at the end of a channel where screams, laughs and jaunty voices all came together as one. He turned down at the hip, dragging you from the cold floor of his chariot up between his broad arms._

_“You might own my heart, but now I own you.”_

* * *

The sheer burgundy curtains spread open, parting for the King to walk inside. He strode with his crutch clanking the dark floor with every step closer. You couldn’t bare look up at him. To see his cocky blue eyes or the smug smile that bobbed with his head, pleased with what he had done. It wasn’t what you needed when you had so looked forward to seeing your brother Hvitserk marry and how happy that would have made your father. His cool digits tilted up your slight chin.

“What can I do to stop your tears?” He asks. You clench the Narcissus in your fingers, drifting your eyes away from his own and along his tightly braided hair.

“I wanted to see Hvitserk marry. He was going to marry a nymph you know.” You suggest one alternative. The suggestion makes the King hum gently before he finally gives in.

“If you eat, I will take you and you will come back. But I can’t bring the beloved (Y/N) up there so skinny,” He barters with you, revealing a fat pomegranate in his hand.

“You… are telling the truth, Ivar? You would really take me to his wedding?” You pat the silky fabric of your bed. When he sits, you curve your spine into him with a bright smile. You spent a good amount of the time sobbing relentlessly, but by the end of the month, it became light sobs. You were so tired of crying.

“I never lie. And not to my Queen.” Ivar sets the pomegranate in his hand. You can’t help but to squeal in glee, throwing your arms around him and running your lips together in an all too eager kiss. The force of your body throws him over onto the bed.

“I am so happy!” You exclaim. He cherishes your body melded against his too much to tell you to eat the pre-peeled fruit that now sits in your hand. You nuzzle back into the side of his neck, exhaling a ragged breath.

“This is why I fell in love with you.” Ivar smiles.

He almost felt bad about giving you the pomegranate. Almost.


	10. Missed Chances

“Are you upset with me?”

If upset was the label Ivar was putting to your state of mind, it couldn’t even cover it. At the current moment there were no words. That day you bounced around enraged, exhausted and now territorial. They all welled up in the perfect little bundle in your arms latched to your breast after many, many hours of hard labour. Ivar took a step closer with his crutch underneath his arm. Then another until he was at the foot of the bed beside you.

“I could not help the timing.” Ivar slides onto the bed, dropping his crutch. You twist away from him ignoring his words. Of all the days he could have chosen, it was today that he missed. Wars happened, campaigns happened, but it was today that only happened once.

“Ah yes, perhaps I should have shoved her back in my womb until a date that is more well suited came along.” You sass while unlatching her little mouth from your breast. She’s fast asleep in your arms.

“And I am sure Lagertha and our armies would wait on my wife to give birth. I would have rather be here. You know this.” Ivar snorts his response, offering out his hands when you tilt your daughter away from her father. His fingers curl inwards into fists. With a clench, he speaks.

“Let me have her.” Ivar’s brow strains with frustration. Your eyes harden to him, pulling the furs over your body. After this many hours, you want to lay down and rest the hours you can. Because in another two or three hours, she will be up and suckling down her milk again.

“Please.” He begs.

“Fine…” Your lips purse into a thick pout as you hand her to him very carefully. He’s quick to unravel the blankets that swaddle her in place to look over her legs before drifting back up to her face.

“The gods have cared for her, they’ve heard your prayers. And sacrifices.” Relief seems to flood over him, allowing him to take in her soft features. A beautiful girl. He can pinpoint your lovely features on her face as well as his own. She’s healthy and plump. It’s all he could want. His fingers run over her cheeks for what feels like hours and by the gods, you can tell he’s so in love.

“Why can I never stay angry at you…” You can’t mad at him anymore. You lift yourself from your sheets and come over him, rubbing his shoulders. He looks up to you with nothing short of admiration, hopelessly in love.

“Can I kiss you?” Ivar tilts his head as your head nears his, bumping your foreheads together. You release an exhausted sigh while teasing your lips up against his. His lips run over yours softly, commanding a kiss before he draws back, flicking his wrist and telling you to rest. The moment your head hit the bed, you fall into an ethereal rest.


	11. Bleeding Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivar's wife doesn't mind children touching her belly. Ivar does.

“Does he kick much, princess (Y/N)?” A brunette thrall kneeled by your chair, giggly with her small hands to your stomach. She was no more than twelve. Her friend must have been even smaller than she and twice as content to rub the top of your swollen belly. The child in your stomach fussed.

 

“He likes to move only when I’m settled,” You smile to her with exhausted, gentle eyes. You were far in your pregnancy. Your stomach is round and uncomfortable with pressure on your body to breathe. Above all, the weight on your stomach made you sleepy but unable to sleep and at times irritable.

 

“Yes he only kicks when nosy little girls keep prodding his warm home, stop fussing over him.”

 

A repetitive clank against the floorboards shook the two girls off of their position kneeling beside you. Ivar slunk down in his throne, placing his crutch on the table and dragging your chair to his.

 

“We apologize my Prince,” The two girls chirp in unison.

 

“Then go get me ale.” His hands cup your lower belly, leaning in to softly kiss the swell. The movement in your belly began to still. As the girls dart off, you pop his arm to reprimand him.

 

“You did not need to scare them. They were only curious,” You protest. Ivar sets his head against your belly as if listening to his son’s heartbeat. He swore he would hear anything the gods allowed him to.

 

“They were pestering him. Besides, you are exhausted, but you can never say no to children. You and your bleeding heart. ” Ivar rises his head from your lap, taking the ale from another thrall who was quick to supply it.

 

“I love you too.” You hum in agreement, leaning over to cradle his jaw between your hands. You take his lips in a kiss, enjoying the sweetness on his lips. Once again, your husband knows you all too well. You just couldn’t say no.


	12. Too Close

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She shouldn't be touching Bjorn.

This was a game to you. You enjoyed rattling his bones and forcing his hand to move in blind anger against someone else. It was just a matter of who could push the game that much further. You were arranging to move your pieces along the board tonight.

“Should you be so close? He’s watching.” Bjorn says as he raises his drink to his parched lips. His drink spills down his firm chest when he feels your feminine hands crossing the expanse of his trousers. Despite your warrior’s heart, your touch is soft and caring of him. He pulls the ale away and bends his head down.

“So let him watch.” You whisper against the shell of his ear. At the end of your statement, your moist tongue outlines the shell of his ear. His eyes turn up across the table to catch the flicker of his brother’s sharpened icy blue eyes daring him to muse your ministrations further. Bjorn didn’t want to but your confidence was enticing. Your hand slides down along the outline of his swollen cock restrained by heavy fabric. Once again he brought his ale to his lips, and finally his ale slides down his throat in a few forced gulps.

“But you are his,” Bjorn protests. Your hand clasps around his excited cock. Your hand drifts up and down his length with a kiss gently set against his upper arm. His eyes catch the heavy glower of his brother, whom rakes the table with his nails kicking up shreds. Although he speaks to Ubbe, his full attention falls onto the scene you incite. His chest raises and falls quickly as if he was a volcano ready to erupt. You turn to face Ivar.

“Am I?” You look to Ivar for his answer. He lurches forward over the table, exhaling air quickly out of his nostrils in his contained rage. His voice falls deep and low.

“You know you are.” He hisses. At that, you smile knowingly.


	13. Valentines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His woman loves Valentines. He does not.

It was the Friday before Valentines. The stores were decked head to toe in pink, red and white. As you pass by one of the many chocolates in heart shaped boxes, Ivar snorts sharply at a man shuffling about with a blaring red, giant teddy bear. It draped over his body like a magnificent coat.

“Look at that fool, he’s overcompensating.” Ivar gestures.

“I think he’s sweet. Valentine’s is such a loving holiday.” You respond. Ivar spins you in toward his body. His other arm is braced by his crutch. Your skirt flutters up with the win, only flattening when Ivar runs his hand down your thigh.

“How is he sweet, mmm? He needs a worthless holiday to prove that he cares.” Ivar drapes his arm around your hips. The doting man looks to the biggest box of chocolates.

“Clearly he adores her, he’s treating her like a Queen.” You respond. You glance to your watch, discovering the time.

“Let’s hurry and get things for my kids, I have to be at the elementary extra early to set up.” You smile.

Treating her like a queen. Was he not treating you like a queen?

* * *

It was eating him up inside. Ivar feels bitter about this whole thing. Every week, every month he spoiled you with this, that or the other. Now he felt the expectation was on him to want to do this dumb shit holiday. He was far better than that joke of a man spoiling his lover with a giant teddy bear. How could you call him sweet? Of course he was. They might have joked that he was boneless, but he knew he was a hell of a man. That was why he had to show you that he could do better by you than anyone else.

“I thought you didn’t believe in this holiday, Ivar.” Ubbe says. He is shocked that Ivar insisted on joining him here to look through jewelry. Ivar is silent as he looks over rings from behind a clear casing. He finds himself frustrated by the lack of pretty red rings. They’re all so aged.

“(Y/N) loves it.” He murmurs. Ubbe folds his hands, walking about Ivar with a hearty laugh echoing in the space. He stops beside Ivar, running his pinky underneath the angle of Ivar’s jaw.

“Ah so that is it. She has you wrapped around her little fingers.” Ubbe motions his fingers, garnering a sneer off of Ivar’s lips.

“If you would spend less time prattling on about things you know nothing about, and more with helping me, we might actually finish instead of listening to this dreadful shit.”

If Christmas music was annoying, the lovey-dovey sappy classics they were playing was like a choking hand on his throat. He really hated this damn holiday.

* * *

Maybe you were a little bitter that every year was without surprise. While your other friends showed off flowers and gifts or went out to eat, Ivar and you kept a rather plain Valentine’s Day. You woke up that afternoon with a blaring headache from the night before. The alcohol still left your head feeling a bit fuzzy. The furniture seemed larger, the smell of burnt food in your nose reminding you that while chocolate and tequila sounded delicious together… it was not. It was really not. You stumbled along drunkenly, bracing yourself on the wall when the fire alarm nearest you blared.

Then another. And another. Bleep! Bleep! 

“Ivar?” Your voice was nearly drowned out by a hacking cough that chimed in time with the outrageous beeps. You opened up the front door before the back, making your way in to find him beside the steaming stove. He uses the mitt in his hand as a fan while grease spits at one of your red aprons that emulates a heart.

“I know you’re fond of fire, but lets not.” You push him away. He falls away from the kitchen and plops down in a chair in the dining room. You move the skillet off of the burner, jerking back when a crackle of boiling grease pops out as you retrieve the steak from the skillet. You set it beside a pot of freshly fluffed, buttery potatoes.

“Oh…” When you turn back to him, you realize the red of the white tablecloth offers a fresh, large bouquet of stereotypical roses. They’re as red as that bear was back in the store but smell fondly of your grandmother’s garden.

“Are these mine?” You come to the round table in your dining room, leaning in to the fat flowers.

“Who else would they belong to?” Ivar teases, rubbing your bare thigh beneath the meager little night dress you wore. Ah shit, you think. You aren’t even dressed. This was why your mother always told you to get ready first thing in the mornings. 

“I thought you didn’t believe in Valentines.” You say. Ivar shrugs, digging in the pocket of a well ironed pair of slacks for a slender black box. 

“Perhaps. But you do.” Ivar moves to slide open the box when you slap your hands atop of his, hiding the glisten of diamonds and precious stones. 

“Stop, stop, stop!”

Ivar looks to you in a cross between annoyed and confused. His nose scrunches all too slightly when you respond.

“I’m not even dressed yet. You can’t just buy me off with pretty things before dinner.” You protest. The tension of his face melts away as he reclines back, unlacing his apron and draping it off to the side.

“Then get ready to go, oh trophy wife.”


	14. NSFW: Drunk Raven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ubbe and Hvitserk go after his woman. Sigurd picks a fight.

“Hvi-Hvi… damn! Why is your name so hard!”

“Mm, ask mother that when we sail home (Y/N).” Hvitserk leans over Ubbe and rests his arm onto his shoulder. On his lap, a young friend to the Ragnarssons straddles his lap. Her dress is in sad disarray, revealing her breasts through poorly tied ropes. The bottle in Hvitserk’s hands tips against her puffy wet lips. They are soaked with pilfered alcohol and stained with his brother’s eager kisses. Ivar’s wayward eyes travel upon the sight. As much as he prayed to the gods that it was not happening, it was happening. His older brothers had her like they had so many other women in the past. And she enjoys their soft kisses.

“Say mine, it’s much easier.” Ubbe says softly. She pulls away from the bottle at her lips. The liquid spills over to stain what is left of her long sky-blue dress.

“I know Ubbe,” She laughs with the amber alcohol dripping down her chest. She worships him through soft sweeps of her fingers along his tufts of his peasant-like hair. Ivar sharpens his axe beside a roaring fire, embers popping off in front of his eyes. The heat broke his body in a sweat that drips down his temple.

“Ahhh, Hvitserk! What if she is to fall ill, Ivar would not appreciate his little raven with such cold.” Ubbe’s head disappears into (Y/N)’s cleavage. Hvitserk sets the bottle down and kneels beside her.

“Ubbe… what if Ivar sees?” She stutters.

“You came to us, (Y/N). You want us.” Hvitserk says and undoes the last of the strands to her dress. When the fabric falls away, Ivar’s fiery eyes shoot up. Ubbe’s hands meld along her breasts, finally coming up for air.

“I…” Her meek voice is shushed by the soft and gentle kisses Hvitserk trails across the line of her shoulders.

He could hear it all. He could hear her shame at the mention of his name. He saw her attempt to veil herself by the slight lean of her head on Ubbe. Of it all, what ate him the most were the soft moans that came off (Y/N)’s lips. Hvitserk led (Y/N)’s hips to undulate down on Ubbe’s clothed thighs.

His little raven was there, practically fucking his older brother in front of everyone. The other men watched over their shoulders. They must have been thinking how easy it would be to squeeze between her legs if she would fall into two princes in front of the army. She wasn’t even with the prince that so desired, and deserved, her warmth.

“I also do not appreciate my brothers touching her.” Ivar speaks up, glowering over the flames. He recalled moments of being children and the little raven stubbornly sitting by his side forgetting all else. Even as the other boys called her out, she opted to stay with Ivar, who had little to offer her. Now that little girl was a woman who had forgotten him. The grass beside Ivar rustles.

“Jealous brother?” Sigurd rolled his tongue across his lower lip and crouches down. Ivar’s lip curls as he scrunches his nose up. The grip on his axe tightens nearly white. For a moment, Sigurd hushes enough to appreciate the sight of her silky legs beneath Ubbe’s devious hands. An amused whistle escapes his lips.

“Do not look at her,” Ivar warns in a shout, jerking on the edge of his chair.

“What? Is that for her?” Sigurd motions the tips of his fingers over Ivar’s crotch. The fabric strains over the protrusion of his cock. Ivar hisses, much like Floki, edging on frightfully angry and damningly aroused at the sound of her uncertain moans. “Gods, here we were thinking it was you who held her back from marriage. But she has you wrapped around her little fingers. Sit, stay, heel…” Ivar’s jaw grinds side to side, holding back.

“Maybe once they’re finished here, they’ll let you lick the scraps like the dog you are.” Sigurd sniggers, beginning to rise. Ivar’s temper flares like the fire separating Sigurd and he from (Y/N). His fist collides with Sigurd’s cheek and in an instant they are off, punching each other and rolling in the grass barking hateful words at one another.

“Ivar?” (Y/N) jerks upon Ubbe’s lap to push Hvitserk off behind her. While Ubbe only groans, Hvitserk foully curses, getting up with you to pull Sigurd’s collar in a few sharp tugs. Ivar swipes out his axe, narrowly missing Sigurd and Hvitserk before they are separated.

“Stop it!” She sways to the side. The brothers linger only long enough for her to slide atop of Ivar’s lap. Her sweet fluids smear over his trousers.

“What… what is your problem?” She asks. Her hands delicately rub the bundle of twisted nerves behind his neck.

“Don’t let me spoil your fun, whore.” Ivar leers hatefully. Somehow, though, he’s wickedly pleased with his work. She’s back to him above all his other brothers. The way it should rightfully be, because he isn’t Hvitserk, he’s no dog. He jerks her arm over to her brothers, but finds that she promptly refuses.

“Don’t say such things. Not… not against me.” She says. Ivar brings his thumb and forefinger to grasp her chin, tilting her to face him.

“It’s hard not to say such things when you test me with my own brothers. Why did you think they wanted to drink with you? To talk war?” Ivar leans in, his tongue stroking the edge of her bitterly sweet lip. Her hand comes to his chest to place distance between the two of them. Her head swirled like she was in the clouds. She could not hash out what thoughts were hers to which were the gods.

“I thought they liked me,” She says almost innocently. Her eyes are murky, but innocent as if she truly believed the words that came out of her lips. She was naïve… and as strong as a warrior she might have been, he knew she trusted others far too much, especially those two.

“They do like you. That is the problem. They will take advantage of you.” Ivar’s hands slid around her waist, pulling her in close as if to shield her body from the others. All of the others. Wherever his attention snapped to, people looked away. Ivar leans down, pulling his cloak off of the ground to cover her body with.

“That is why you cannot leave me.”


	15. One or the Other

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader is jealous of Margrethe. After Sigurd pops off at Ivar, she must choose a side.

Talk of Margrethe was wearing on your mind like a sore. Every day it was something else of Margrethe. They had sex with her and you were fine with that! But it began to wear on your mind the more you heard of her. How one woman could be so easily shared between four men still baffled you, even if Ivar didn’t have her in bed any longer. Somewhere in the pits of your stomach you pulled a sick glee knowing that they no longer minded one another.

You wondered what such a woman could offer them. She had nothing to offer, nor did she legally have rights. Why was it that they could not pursue a woman of status? Particularly the younger brothers, Ivar and Sigurd, who did not need her as intensely.

“What is so great about Margrethe for you Sigurd?” You turn to look at him, hanging up your weighty shield and laying back in the tall grass of the field between the youngest brothers. Neither really wanted to be around one another, you knew, but you refused to choose sides between the two. His other brothers chat beside a thick tree, the sort you expect Yggdrasil to belong to.

“She is the most beautiful here (Y/N).” He answers and joins you laying side by side. Your heads knock together and for a moment, you feel at peace. As if it wasn’t really Magrethe he was speaking about but you. It was no secret to the brothers that you enjoyed Sigurd and Ivar in a special way. Sigurd’s words make him feel guilty.

“And… you are beautiful as well (Y/N). You’ll find a husband soon.” Sigurd says with the crook of his nose against the side of your cheek. His bright eyes captivate yours. He told you that he found his supposed wife and now he sought to make you feel better. Those words were genuine in a way. His words fell on a sour stomach. Your pettiness reared its head in your next words.

“But not the most beautiful. She must be Freya’s vision to enjoy the dalliances of all Kattegat’s princes.” You reason bitterly when Ivar comes to rest his head upon your soft stomach. Your fingers weave through his dark strands. Sigurd feels as if it’s a moment with his mother all over again when you turn your attention away from him to Ivar. He finds himself jealous that Ivar has such a cooling effect on your nerves. Why weren’t you scared like the others? You should have been.

“I agree with Sigurd.” Ivar says. It feels like a miracle that they might agree on anything. You bark a laugh out on him.

“Oh really? That she is the most beautiful?” You suggest as to not let yourself be let down. Enough time around Floki taught you that.

“No. That you are beautiful… and that you will find a husband soon. For now, it is only you and I. Who else could you need?” Ivar hums with his eyes full or ardor. The warmth bubbles over in your belly. It feels like the intense bubbling of water, threatening to overfill and drown you. Instead of heating up, you find your eyes bolting from his own to the fleeing clouds in the skies above.

“Oh ho. Aren’t you being ambitious in claiming me already?” You say. You pick at your locks of hair, twirling it around your fingers. In a perfect world, this would be your reality between both Sigurd and Ivar.

“I will have you as my wife.” Ivar says. The arrogance could have been insulting, but in a moment where everyone wanted her, it warmed you to hear. 

“And how would you be able to consummate such a marriage? To fill (Y/N) children? Your prick doesn’t work. Leave her to someone who won’t leave her aching for satisfaction and seed.” Sigurd says darkly with his hands behind his head. The veil of peace is shattered, and you look to Ivar’s icy blue eyes that dart open.

“What? Someone like you?” Ivar’s head twists to meet his Sigurd’s gaze.

“At least I could finish.”

“Ivar let it go…” You start, but it’s pointless. He all but lurches off your stomach and digs his fingers into Sigurd’s hair. Sharp tugs rip out blonde hair in his closed fist. Sigurd responds by smashing his fist into Ivar’s jaw. The audible click of his jaw is accompanied by his angered roar. You restrain Ivar’s flying fists when Ubbe hooks his arms around Ivar’s powerful upper body. He drags him across ground with Hvitserk steadying Sigurd. With the two separated apart from one another, you shake your head from one brother to the other. You decide to make the long trip back to Kattegat alone with only the gods as company. In the bloody grass, Ivar looks to his older brother with a light sneer, spitting out bloodied saliva off to the side.

“Very nice, you idiot.”

* * *

That night was a celebration of a marriage. Ivar was less than interested in attending, but with his mother’s wishes, he came. His other brothers dallied around while watching the dancing, the fighting and with their drinks never running dry. There was fun to be had and yet Sigurd sat silently searching the crowd. He would make his rounds about the festivities. Ivar noticed that he was looking for someone.

“I don’t see her.” Sigurd said off to himself. Sigurd sat beside his brother Ivar, no doubt as a ploy to attract her attention.

“Who?” Ivar asked playing the part. He knew exactly who his brother was talking about. She kept him company on these events, given that his brothers were often running wild. He knew that she would show up tonight regardless of the petty fight that afternoon. It was like all the other times Sigurd said something to make himself sound like a dumbass. She always forgave him, no matter how much it hurt Ivar.

“(Y/N).” Sigurd says.

“She probably won’t show now that you’ve embarrassed her. You spoke of her like a bitch for breeding.” Ivar snorts.

“I was not trying to embarrass her. It was you.” Sigurd responds and inches up to the edge of his seat confidently, without fear of his brother. He was ready to fight once more when his thoughts crumbled altogether. There is a soft kiss to the top of his head. He knew it was her. She smelled of the flowers of the meadows and the ashy hearth of fire.

“(Y/N), You came,” Sigurd says as she slides beside Ivar, kissing the side of his cheek. She is different somehow. He weighs her appearance. Her gown tailored close to her body in white and soft red, jeweled with soft gems devoting her to the gods. Her soft hair is tousled about her face in waves. The way she holds herself is the same, honest, and pure (Y/N), but there’s something more there. She held pride in her appearance, unlike the envious girl that once carried on before them. She was showing off.

And it runs chills down Sigurd’s back. He was going to lose her.

She didn’t sit beside him. She sat with Ivar. Her hand curls over Ivar’s and she takes her place like a confident queen at a feast. Ivar’s shocked, slack jawed face looks over from Sigurd to his coupled hand. Her finger taps just under his chin and scrapes his jaw with her nail.

“I was at the god’s feet all afternoon Sigurd. They’ve enlightened me. Hello Boneless,” She presses her lips to his in a chaste but teasing kiss. His hand cups her cheek as he leans forward, sliding his tongue across her lower lip before begging for access. She willingly gives into him and the kiss deepens. Neither seem bothered in the slightest that Sigurd is watching. On the contrary, it excites Ivar to know his brother is tormented by watching and not touching. He pulls away, drifting kisses across her unmarred neck. His hand disappears between her skirts by her guiding hand.

“Be my wife.” His brother whispers, and among her gentle moans, he can hear her soft lips spreading in a gentle praise. Praises that Ivar did not deserve. He deserved them. They should have been his.

“Come show me how you will fill me with child for our wedding day, Ivar.” She pushed away his hand and stood up. Ivar grasps his crutch and stands with minimal effort. With only a light trail of her fingers around Sigurd’s shoulders, she bent down to his ear.

“Goodnight my dear friend.”

It was then that he knew he lost her.


	16. Shiny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Demon!Ivar steals a golden princess from the Saxons.

Sirens were blowing in King Alfred’s palace, billowing smoke from molten hot signal fires for miles. The townsmen gathered to no avail outside where the soldiers pounded in and out of the cobblestone entrance to the palace in a frantic search. Everyone had been accounted for from the lowest of servants to the highest, the King. All those but one.

“The Princess is missing.” A bishop waved his torch, a plume of smoke diffused into the winter night’s air. The prince and king beside him were in awe, eyes equally popping in grief. Though the prince was more disillusioned than the king.

“(Y/N)!” He shouts, running on frost. “(Y/N)! (Y/N)!”

It was pointless, King Alfred knew. He simply didn’t know how to break it down to his brother. He had an idea of what might have taken his maiden sister. He simply didn’t know what manner of beast had slipped in the cracks.

Shiny things caught his attention. Some things for different reasons than others, but inevitably, he always got the shiny thing he wanted. When it came to the Christian castle on warmer fields, there were plenty of shining things to be had. A crown made of rich gold imbued with bloody garnets and sapphires that rivaled the brightness of his own eyes. No gem so beautiful as Alfred’s precious little princess. A twin. The most blaring difference being in place of his dull, boring eyes hers were as gold as the piles of treasure stacked through his cave.

He had to have her.

So he easily procured her with a potion brewed by his sweet, late mother. There were few left over bottles that his inky claws could get his hands on. But such an occasion? It was necessary that he take the potion subdue her. (Y/N) the Golden, they called her… and she was his.

* * *

His inky claws wove through your hair that shone like rich thread against his fingers. You shifted against his caramel deep chest whining until you woke with a startle. In the dark of night, your golden eyes lit up the room and drowned out the brightest of stars.

“Around now, I’m sure they’re fussing about where I took you… simple princes.”

It quickly registered that it wasn’t your beloved Aethelred or sweet Alfred speaking. It was a strange, low voice with an undertone so buttery smooth. You could have easily fallen into his sweet words against the shell of your ear if not for his lithe prodding fingers tucking away your hair. Take you? Where– and who at that? Besides that, who was he?

“Who are you?” You rolled on his firm, bare chest. His eyes were sharply blue, but you could see nothing else in the darkness of his cool cavern.

“Ivar the Boneless.” Came his cool reply.

“Why Boneless?” You ask.

“Boneless because…” He slides a hand around your waist. His other hand reaches out towards something– flicking his wrist. First one fire flickered on, a hot blue flame nearest his head. The lamp rippled its hot light across his startlingly human face. The pepper of hair at the sides of his face almost remind you of Aethelred– but his features were different. Between his rolls of braids on his head sprouted inhuman horns, black keratin curling back around the shell of his human ears.

“Christ!”’ You shrieked, wrestling in his grip. “You’re a demon!”

“I thought you wanted to know why I’m so Boneless.” He mused as you rolled off of him into a silken pillow of itching feathers. There was good reason why you rolled off of him with so much fear– his legs were as inhuman as his head. They were neither human nor animal, coal dark with an inhuman bend up along to the haunches. Almost like the paintings your grandfather Ecbert had stashed away; the ones of those heathens that followed woodland gods with satyr like legs. His were different: inky with the curl of his claws but so soft to the touch, you wondered how he kept up.

Well, lightly wondered anyway, the rest of you was horrified at the beast that god was punishing you with. You looked side to side, top to bottom with no result in how to escape this strange cavern. Ivar shed a dark, fang tipped smile and flickered a few more hovering lanterns as you paced, side to side.

“How do I leave?” You looked back to Ivar. “What is it you want?”

You gathered the ends of your skirts and rushed back to him. Ivar dully glanced you over, shaking his head. “You don’t.” He says. “I want company.” Ivar clicks his inky paws together, the lashing of his inhuman tail whipping side to side.

“Company.” You repeat.

He nods, not daring to repeat what he just said. “Are there not tons of other maidens around that could keep you company? Why me?” You ask.

Ivar looks around to his high arches of golden coins, spilling down the top to the floor. The coins roll to a stop along your feet as Ivar hums gladly.

“You’re their treasure, of course I had to have you.” Ivar rolls onto his stomach, dragging himself closer by his inky claws like the beast he was. Shiny, he said. This demon made little sense to you. You lowered onto your knees as he came close, his slender tail whipping impatiently. In some way, this beast didn’t seem at all as scary as you made him out to be. Yes, of course, he stole you from home. He took you from Aethelred and Alfred, even your mother.

But in another way, those hues of sapphire accompanied by exhausted puffs under his eyes reminded you of something. This beast– was still a man. Somehow. You sat down, your legs to the side as the beast collapsed again atop of your lap. Lightly, your hand shifted over his rows of braids, flicking your fingers around the loose strands of brown at the back of his head.

“…and you are one lonely beast.”


	17. Valkyrie in his Midst

You had done it now. For the sake of the Ragnarssons you fought against everything you knew was true. At the mercy of your god and master Odin, you knew you were fucked. The skulls were heavy at the end of strings of human intestines, weighing in favor of Ivar the Boneless but more importantly, Hvitserk. Whom was meant to be charred to ash on a pyre outstretching to the heavens. Except, he wasn’t.

“You let them flank Hvitserk because you were so foolish as to not listen to me!” You chase Ivar into his room, your feet bouncing along the ground.

“He would have been fine. It was my decision, not yours. It doesn’t concern you… shieldmaiden.” Ivar grit his teeth as he looked up to you. An amazon of a woman, you stood several feet above of him. Your wavy black locks were sticky by blood, matter together.

“He wouldn’t have been!” Your eyes widen like black pools, reaching out to grasp Ivar by his leather collar. You lift him up to your eyes despite the fact that his knife is at your tawny throat. “He was fated to die. Do you understand, son of Ragnar? Another Ragnarsson’s blood would be on YOUR hands.”

“The gods chose who die.” Ivar remarks. His blade digs into your throat but no blood is drawn as hard as he presses. Bewildered at the lack of blood, he looks to you skeptically, drawing knife and head back.

“No we— Valkyries claim the lives on the field.” You say.

The wheels seem to turn in Ivar’s because as he looks at you, it’s with renewed vigor. He caught your stumble and flush, the way you groan in frustration. “Valkyrie.” He says, wayward eyes traveling over your curves. “Of course.”

As you dry him down, you know he understands. Your hands and his hands fall to respective sides as you turn away from him. You shuffle awkwardly out. The soft plumes of detached feathers at your shoulders reassure him. No wonder other men ran away from your side.

He had a Valkyrie in his midst.


	18. Can't Say No

Ivar hobbled most forcefully in through camp, legs buttered with stagnant blood. The other men stormed through shrieking for their partners under the rage of war. But you were different: quiet like a mouse. He rolled his lower lip into his mouth, rubbing his palm over plump green leaves.

“(Y/N).” He rasps at first, turning around in the camp as others called for their lovers. Silence at first, but then, a shuffle as your olive toned face surfaced. Tawny between dark leaves of green, you crawled like his beautiful plump kitten he knew you were. Ivar climbed over the mud at the clamor of screams from his men discovering cold, bloody wives.

“Ivar.” You said, gold jingling from your earrings as you crawled closer. Words fell cold on his lips as he pressed thick brunette strands past your plump cheeks to hook behind your ear. His lips moved along yours in a needy kiss.

“Wherever I keep you, you’re an awful distraction.” He murmured.

“If you didn’t want me, you shouldn’t have said yes.” You said. Ivar pulled back, thumb teasing along your lips.

“You expected me to say no?”


	19. Lost Sigurdsson

“If I could just see the prince for a minute. Please.” You plead at the entrance to see Ivar, your toes cold along the floor. It was going to be Jól soon. You had to talk to him.

“I don’t have time for this.” The Viking in front of you pushed at your shoulder, shoving you back a great couple of feet. You fell to the ground with a loud ‘oof!’ Beside you the wailing of a young boy rippled through the air, no more than a year and a half old.

“What is all that noise?” The Prince’s voice seeps out to where you lay in the ground, reaching out for your young son. The guards shuffle away, the seas of men parting to give way to your prince.

“She was asking to see you Ivar. I told her—“ Ivar holds out his hand to silence the man.

“Get up. What is your name?” Ivar asks while you gather yourself off the dusty floor. You take up your blonde haired son into your arms

“(Y/N).” You answer. “This is my son Mimir.”

Ivar grunts in acknowledgment whilst looking you over. Suddenly you fall self conscious. The eyes of a Prince— on your peasant curves. Mimir is dressed far better than you. Perhaps it was a mistake as Ivar passes his eyes over your knee length skirt then settle on your sloppy braids weaved with poor beading. Your appearance was important to impress prince Ivar. And yet… you stood like the worst of thralls for a free woman.

“A divorce to settle.” He suggests. You shake your head.

“I’ve never been married my prince.” You say. Ivar looks to the bemused laughter of his men. A woman with a child, never married. It must have been funny to them, but not to you. You were so tired.

“Then what?” Ivar says, his patience dissolving short.

“I came to set paternity for my son.” Your hands set atop of your skirt. The crowd of men heckle you with hateful words but your head is high. Ivar limps closer, his face mere inches from yours.

“I have to say… I think I would have remembered fucking you.” Ivar says lazily, leaning forward to pat the slight curve of your ass. You could remember when your curves were enviable. Now, you felt so thin… You shove his hand off, flustered as you barked out:

“Not you. Sigurd Snake-in-the-Eye.”

Once again, they fell quiet. No one had spoken Sigurd’s name in some time and as Ivar turned, you could feel the heat of his eyes on your head.

“What?” He glanced down to the boy, meeting the two shafts of Fafnir in your son’s eyes. His lips part before he takes up your son with his free arm. The resemblance to him as a child is uncanny. He can’t deny that the son is his brothers.

“He’s my brother’s son.” Ivar agrees. You exhale a breath of air at his words as Ivar hands off your son to a thrall. He glares darkly at the ground until you speak.

“I know how he died.” You begin, finding Ivar glares out of the corner of his slight eyes. “But… I only ask that you can forgive Sigurd enough to not throw Mimir out into the cold. He’ll die with me.” You plead.

Of course you didn’t want to leave him– but you knew what was best for him. Your little boy couldn’t die, even if it meant leaving him with the uncle that likely detested him. After a while, Ivar nods. You turn away from the youngest Ragnarsson and begin to walk out toward the outskirts of town when he grasps your arm.

“Where are you going? It is cold.” He asks. Before you can go on, he cuts you off. “Your son is inside. So go inside.”

You want to object, but he is already dragging you inside. The clean floors and wide, open warmth are foreign to you. Ivar hands you a fruit harshly, walking back to a room with Mimir grumbling all the while.

“And bathe. For being so pretty, you smell like a Saxon whorehouse.”


	20. Broken Pieces

You took the broken pieces to your workshop. The light of a candle illuminated your work in creating a new, beautiful piece with countless sutures of gold holding together a piece of pottery.

“Shouldn’t you be asleep?” A voice called out from darkened depths of the room. You knew who it was.

“I can’t sleep. You inspire me. Sometimes to make things, sometimes to break things. Today it is to make things.” You murmured, a small tool in your hand helping you line your work. A loud shifting shook you from the last large piece, unable to deny the pleasure of looking at him. His hair was unkept and wild as if it had been combed over to the side. You swallowed forcefully, looking back to your dish in a pouty silence.

“Why should I have asked you if I could raid with father?” Ivar says finally. Maybe he’s right. He didn’t need to ask you, but you wish he had.

“We’ve never just been friends Ivar.” You sigh, sliding your brush across the crumbling edge. You set the tool down with a crack on the table, setting your hand to your forehead. “…and your mother said you will die.”

There’s a sudden warmth at your thigh. Ivar scales the chair to stand to the best of his ability, muscles quivering.

“I’m not going to die.”

A change from earlier in which he could care less if he died, or what you had to say to it. It still doesn’t convince you. Your lips part as he reclines with one arm over the neck of your chair.

“But what if you do?” You ask. “What will I do then without you? Father said—“

Ivar heaves a heavy breath, reaching his hand to cup your cheek. He turns your face up to his glove clad hands. “Why is it you have to listen to everyone other than me?”

Your cheeks felt hot. It was what Aslaug said, what your father said… but never what Ivar said. You clasp your hands over his as he goes on.

“Stop complicating things. I will go and then I will be back for you.” He says. Your stomach flipped haughtily in your stomach.

“As your woman?” You say.

“If that is what you want.”


	21. Tell Her

Taking you into war with him could go one of two ways. Either incredibly well or terribly wrong. In this case, it was terribly wrong for the Saxons.

 

“We should release him. He is a prince like you and I.” Ubbe said aside him while he nursed a gash on the side of his arm. He scrunched the bridge of his nose up tight.

 

“(Y/N) has Aethelred.” Ivar says, “if you would like to dig up the bone from under her claws, you may try.”

 

It all started when Aethelred knocked Ivar off of his chariot and it only got worse from there when you sprung loose. Several rooms away, Ivar could hear the slight screams off of the lips of the battle worn prince.

 

Ubbe glanced as if to look for the room Aethelred was in, grimacing. “You couldn’t convince your wife to stop?” He suggests.

 

“She scares me when she is in these moods. Would you like to try?”


	22. Only Me!

The resounding thud of the music, swirl of hips and jingling of scant lingerie all reminded you of what you did for a living. As you slide the door shut from a private room, your forehead rests against the door in brief reprisal. A slight bout of pressure to your bare midriff alerted you to come back to your senses.

“Ms. (L/N).” A voice, low and unabashed, with a click of his tongue. “Why were you over there?”

You didn’t have to look over your shoulder to know who it was. The boss, Ivar Lothbrok. On either side of him, his brothers stood donned in suits that looked damn good. But not as decadent as the slender pinstripe suit with cerulean tones in both tie and handkerchief tucked away in his front pocket.

Almost clumsily, you rush to explain. “Lagertha wanted—“

He sneers at the words you rush to get out. “Upstairs. Now.” He barks.

You all but fall over your glittering golden heels to move, move, move. Your heart did flips in your chest spurred by Hvitserk’s light chuckling as you ran up the stairs. Your fingers sloppily jiggle the handle open, falling in with a hint of shock.

“Ivar.” You say, turning with wispy gossamer silks floating behind your hips. Ivar slams the door, photos of his sweet dead mother dancing on the walls as he bore holes into the ground. His lips were sewn shut.

“It was just a job.” You move your palms, jingling under bangle and jewel, to grab the sides of his face. Ivar jerks away from your hands snarling.

“A job where you shimmied your ass on her lap.” Ivar barks out. You scrunch nose and eyes as you look around to a mirror, over to the fiber thin strings of jewels of your bra that hide perky nipples away.

“You did hire me as a dancer, Ivar. You overcomplicate things!” You say, sliding your hands onto your hips. For a good chunk of change you danced. For Lagertha, it was clearly personal. An act of dominance over his favourite of toys?

“You don’t dance for Lagertha.”

The slam of his crutch on the ground makes you jump. His fingers leave his lips where he thought of his next words.

“You don’t dance for Hvitserk or Ubbe or even Harald.” Your heels wobble as you back up, shocked by the weight of his words.

“You only dance for me.”


	23. Beacon

Everything had been so tense as of late. From Ivar battling with Ubbe to the constant battle for your friend’s dear home, you grew tired of the in and outs of day to day life. So what a surprise it was to receive a rare gift of a beautiful blade adorned in fat garnet from Hvitserk.

“What is this?!” You squeal unraveling it’s fluffy covering of foreign wrapping and pull the handle free from its protective covering. The blade was pristine from any marks.

“It might as well be a beacon for Lagertha.” Ivar sneers bitterly at the handle. Almost too bitterly, you thought. 

“What is it Ivar, are you jealous?” You laugh, hopping out of your seat across from Ivar to brandish the blade up against the rays of the setting sun. The light ricochets off the neck of the blade.

“Tch.” Ivar sneers, angling his jaw towards his brother. “Where did you get that, Hvitserk, huh?”

Hvitserk’s tongue moistens dry lips. “It was a gift from uncle for her.”

It was a gift from Rollo. His head rolls along his neck, noting the delight you took in the news. You hop around Hvitserk on the balls of your bare feet, twirling with your deep red dress lifting up with the wind. 

“Ah! A gift from your uncle. You see he knows how fine a warrior I am!” You squeal. 

Of course he did. Ivar’s fingers rub along the creasing in his forehead out toward the side of his head. “I am too sober to deal with you (Y/N).” He grumbles to himself.

His fingers tighten along his mead when you set your arm on top of Hvitserk’s shoulder, the angled tip of the blade pointing towards Ivar. You push off of the makeshift human stoop that was Hvitserk and ease towards him.

“I can’t tell if you’re jealous or angry, my friend. Or maybe even both?”

In a split second movement, Ivar turned at the waist to drag you into his lap. The sword meets the ground with a clank while his digits form a forceful hold on your hips.

“Have I ever told you… that you talk far too much?”


	24. Take a Nip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Anorexia included.

The occurrence was new as of the last two years.

His wife would push the food around her plate, side to side, occasionally taking a bite like Ivar wouldn’t notice. Other times when he wasn’t looking, you would sneak off bits of food to the cat. Today would be different. He sat beside you, drifting his fingers behind your thin neck. His fingers squeezed around your neck like a torc necklace.

“Eat, (Y/N).” He whispers in her ear.

You glance up from your full plate to Ivar, dropping the utensil in favour of ringing your fingers around her wrist middle finger to thumb. He noticed you would do it when something didn’t sit quite well with you. More so when it was related to food.

“I’m not so hungry.” You lie.

He pauses. “I know you haven’t eaten all day. So how can you not be hungry?” Ivar asks curtly.

Sure you hadn’t. You pushed away the fruit and bread of the morning, ignored a soup of chunky rabbit and now you were looking at your dinner in nothing short of disgust. You look away from his eyes to look about the empty room littered by toys.

“If you’re looking for Svan and Lefsi, I sent them with the thralls.” He says.

You push your plate away to pick wooden figurines up from the floor. You’re stalling, he knows. Ivar watched as you set the toys away in a box carved by Floki himself.

“You’ve gotten too skinny.” Ivar says, spinning your plate of food about the table. With a clack, his knuckles rap against the table.

“I’m not too skinny… I’m not even skinny.” You murmur.

“From where I’m sitting,” He knocks on the wood. “Most people call those collarbones skinny.”

Your hands slap your long gown that covered your thin thighs as if exasperated. After all, you had skated along two whole years without his constant supervision over what you were eating. Unfortunately, that luck seemed to have drowned out.

“What is it that you want Ivar?” You ask flickering your eyes over to the plate you laid out for him. He picks at his food too.

“I think I have been patient.” He says between bites. The left side of his lips quirks into a frown, offering out a piece of chicken. “Tell me why you don’t eat.”

You pull away a stray strand of hair from your face, curling it around your finger. “Because I’m not hungry.” You slink over to the adjoining room.

To your horror– he followed you too. He reclines back on his crutch when you work half of the dress down your shoulders. You chew on your cheek furiously, glancing over your shoulder. His vibrant eyes course along your thin frame knowing how bitterly angry just looking at your body could make you.

“Ivar, please.” You say.

“Go on.” He motions for you to undress with his fingers. It didn’t matter that he saw your body before. It didn’t matter that he was your husband. The fear set in your brain with a shout of “fat” over and over again. At times you could find something you liked.

You liked how Ivar’s hands could encompass the bones of your hips. You liked the gap between your legs and the lack of obnoxious chaffing that burned your inner thighs. You liked how slight you looked. Somehow when Ivar was there. It all went to shit. Your thighs were fat chunky things and only rivaled by your hate for the jagged stripes reminiscent of cat scratches across your lower belly.

Gods, you thought that you were dying. Your stomach clenched tight. “Ivar you can’t just…” Your words fell dully. It would be weird if you wouldn’t strip in front of him. A man could divorce a woman over sex, just as you could divorce him. Your lack of sex life as of recently was all due to you. You were somewhat surprised that he had yet to divorce you for that pretty blonde slave.

“Do you need more convincing?” Ivar says, coming closer. He moved within feet of you, boots cracking on aged planks of wood. Your eyes knit shut, holding the dress that cloaked over your body like a giant blanket. You felt hot anxiety filling your stomach when his lips made contact with your neck. He’d want you more if you were thinner. The little voice said in your ear, despite the obvious fact that… well, he was ghosting butterfly like kisses down your neck.

“I’m fat.” You said, jerking back away from him.

His smile gapes slightly, falling into a chalked out laugh. “How are you fat?” Ivar steps forward.

You turned to face him, quaking in your place as you worked the laces of your dress down, sliding out of your dress. Ivar’s eyes followed the offending little fabric as it fell to the place where it belonged: on the ground. He reached out, drawing his hand along your thin legs that joined at slender hips.

“How am I not fat?” was all that you could say. You sob. “I eat and eat like I’m still pregnant with the twins.”

That was over two years ago. Silence arrested the moment and while Ivar didn’t know how much weight you lost, he knew you looked a shadow of what you had in the past. His leather clad hands urged you back until the back of your calves hit the bed. You were all too willing to drop back onto it and successively, you climb into the middle. The furs were a warm distraction from the shivers that took you over.

“What is so fat about your body? Hm?” He says, lurching over the bed to drag your sealed tight legs over, tucked over one of his broad arms.

Its more work to fight him. It didn’t seem fair that he could just waltz in, command you around and get what he wants at the end of it all. But that’s your Ivar. Your slender fingers run over the apex of your thighs, tickling down to the lower part of your thighs.

“My thighs.”

In an instant, Ivar drops between the space of your thighs. He brings your minute frame up to meet his face, running his lips across the space of your thighs. He leaves soft kisses in his wake, drifting higher and higher up until pain exploded at the uppermost region of your legs. A fat welt gathers as Ivar repeats the treatment to the other.

“Ow!” You bop him atop his head. “Why would you do that!” You exclaim.

He plants a kiss atop of the welt. “Where else?” He asks, not at all disguising the husk in his voice.

Begrudgingly, you lead his attention from your legs up towards your soft stomach. The skin is loose. Enough so that he knows that it must be the leading cause of your discomfort. He kisses his way up from your pubic mound to your belly button, drawing a wet line with his angular tongue up to dip into your belly button. There he placed another mean nip followed by a lazy kiss.

“Why is it…” He murmurs with hot breath. He blinked slowly and deliberately, easing his fingers to outline each and every mark on your skin. Again he disappeared from his place at your stomach to soft tufts of your hair. His tongue slipped within your wet folds, keeping contact with your eyes in a long deliberate stroke of his tongue. Blood rushed to your core as if your cunt wasn’t swollen with an ache before.

“That you hate,” He groans vibrations up against your entrance. His tongue dips up against wet walls, unused in some time. A soft groan slips from your lips encouraging him on further– and his fingers find the small bead of your clit. His thumb rubs up against the button in a roll of his finger, gliding it against his finger. His dark hair tickles your bruised thighs, rocking you closer to that peak when one of Ivar’s thick fingers disappears into your moist sex.

A build up of pressure in your stomach quaked your legs. Ivar’s mouth clasps over your clitoris, drawing yourself closer and closer to your orgasm with his wonderful tongue until– there’s nothing. “That I made you a mother?” He kisses the top of your pubic mound.

“Ivaaarrr.” You complain when he draws his face back. Ivar’s hand slides its way inside his pants, clearly fondling his cock. You want to fight him– kick him or push him and ride him– but he smiles almost knowingly. Incentive. He was using himself as incentive.

“You’re beautiful.” Ivar says, spanking the side of your hip. “But not tonight.”

He was using himself as incentive because he wanted nothing else but to tie you down and make you eat– but it wouldn’t be ‘ethical’ to do that to a free woman. Because he wanted to see a warm, genuine smile again. Because he was worried– but he just couldn’t say it.


	25. Capture the Queen

Once upon a time, you were allies. You fought beside Ivar the Boneless for the benefit of your people and his people. Eventually though, it came to this.

“Are you awake?”

The voice cutting through your blinding headache belonged to him. It belonged to the man that captured you, that one time you truly believed loved you and all that you did for one another. Now that you were collared up by chains, those feelings dashed far away.

“‘M always awake.” You slurred, your head dropping against your chest as you looked at him. The fuzzy white of your vision eventually dissipated in front of your eyes. From white to the dark of the room you sat in, you finally came to realize where you were. Your chains were tight and taut on your throat, settling you with a deep rage. Being collared like a dog wasn’t an option for you. Your hands snapped to your belt, to find nothing there. No axe or knife, nothing. Instead, Ivar laughed darkly, coming up beside you and lightly knocking your bare hip with his foot. The dress had a daring slit and a deep cut neckline. You lurched forward to strike at him, but the chains keeping you in place at your wrists stopped any movement.

“I hate to say it, but I told you to side with me.” Ivar laughs. “What did you say to me in that bath?”

Ivar’s Great army defeated Lagertha and your army that day. You were never the sort of woman to retreat. Odin’s or Freyja’s cruel punishment manifested in this room now. There were no axes of swords and it all became uncomfortably real to you as you relived the day Ivar and you discussed plans against the great witch.

__

_“Lagertha is a Queen. I could stand beside another Queen.” You swam up to the edge of a bath, your breasts pressing up against the ridge of a wooden bath that held up the water you bathed in. Ivar, fully dressed, fiddled a knife between his fingers as he watched you._

_“So are you. You could increase your share of land.” Ivar suggests you side with him. “Run away with me, be my queen.”_

_Everytime you said you would side with Ivar it was because he was witty, because the gods were by his side and because he was the son of Ragnar Lothbrok, who your father loved. You balked out a laugh._

_“Ragnarssons don’t love Queens. They only love slaves.”_

__

Ivar’s boot nudges under your ass between your soft legs, sliding up until it ran up against your naked sex. You inhale sharply as he moves his foot up despite leaning on his crutch. Somehow, here he was, walking and more than able to touch you in the way you both never imagined.

“Ragnarssons only love slaves.” You inhale sharply.

“But you could have been a queen.”


	26. A Promise

Ivar takes a step on the warm pool floor. His feet are steadied by a simple pool noodle that he holds above the waters that float about his chest. Water therapy isn’t his favourite activity, but it beats being the process of healing from surgery and Sigurd’s cruel words that arose about taking ‘the easy way out.’

“Come to me,” His physical therapist (Y/N) says. Despite that cute little one piece, he know far better than to blindly try and walk to you. Not after last time.

“So they can make fun of the cripple?” Ivar says, stopping to gesture at the other patients in separate areas of the pool. His area was far different. If one looked, no one was around. That was likely due to his shit temper and roaring threats to break an old man’s limbs after he dared have a hoot at his expense. If he was being honest, it was probably more for their safety tan his.

“So you can walk Gyda down the aisle like she wants you to.” You say. He stiffens as if marred at the thought of not being able to complete what she asked of him. At the beginning you tried the soft approach to being around him. It didn’t work. What did work was finding what was important to him. He knows that you’ve gotten close to him, uncomfortably so for him.

That gets him to move. “I’m going.” Ivar snaps, and he presses forward. You watch as he steps with the flow of water towards you. As much as you worried that he might fall, he doesn’t. Your breath catches and is released when he finally makes it to you past the resistance of the pool water. This time, the old man is left saying nothing across the pool as you bob on your heels with glee.

“Sad to say I think you’ll have to walk her down.” You set your hands on your hips. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, but you had a discussion at length with him regarding the expectation for him to fail. They all expected he couldn’t do it. Even his mother did through her aggressive overprotectiveness. All but Gyda.

“Looks like it,” He says, annoyed. You motion him to turn and walk in the other direction when he shocks you.

“Come with me to her wedding,” He throws over his shoulder. Your nerves are strung tight. Of course you want to go to see the fruit of your work, and maybe a little more… But you could be reported to the board for crossing such a line.

“Ivar…” You begin. As soon as Ivar dropped off, he picks back up without a pause.

“You can be my doctor, not a date. In case I fall, if such a thing should happen, you would be there. You wouldn’t want to leave me to wither, would you?”

Dramatic, you think. Ivar turns with a magnanimous grin that makes any argument buzzing abut in your head fall dead.

“Of course not.” You say with a half-smile and look to the clock. The session is technically over, but like usual, you can’t resist just a little more time with him. He makes his way back to you, soaring your heart with pride at his achievement.

“Good. Wear something pretty. Mother is too picky.” Ivar sits on the steps to the pool, scooting himself up with his muscled arms dragging him up the steps.

“I’ll see if I can find something, Ivar.”

When he lifts himself up and out of the water, you sit by his side on the steps. He hesitates, but his hand ultimately drapes on the wet fabric of your swimsuit over your waist. He leans in, whispering soft words as sweet as candy in your ear. His words are followed by a quick, chaste kiss to your temple.

“Its a date.”


	27. Beloved

You were there when it happened. When Ivar parted Sigurd from this world, You were at his side beside Hvitserk and Ubbe. Bjorn had left the commotion earlier, so you were the family who remained. A few threatening steps and he fell like a rock in front of the crowd. Along with the brothers, you knelt beside Sigurd with your pregnant stomach heavy against your thighs. As Ubbe desperately shouted ‘no!’, your eyes met Ivar’s.

“What have you done?!” You shrieked, mussing your fingers through his hair once you brought his head onto my lap. Sigurd was just… gone.

_The moon was high in the sky when you bathed in the cool waters of the Fjord, humming at the tune of your love’s light strumming on the Oud. It was as quiet as the stillness of the moon that illuminated Kattegat. You bring my fingers across the v of you pubic region, washing away remnants of Sigurd and Ivar’s sweet seed away. Even at the rustle of the bushes behind you both, you’re secure with Sigurd by your side. The silence is cut short as Sigurd sets aside his instrument, motioning you closer._

_“I have meant to ask you something, (Y/N). I have not been completely honest with you.” Sigurd says as you come to him. He slides you onto his lap with his hands atop of your cool, wet thighs._

_“What is it?” You set your head on his shoulder, wet hair chilled by the brisk winds. Sigurd curls his arms about you._

_“I wanted to ask you to be my wife. I will do anything. I will make you a home and love you more than he could,” Sigurd’s lips stained your knuckles in his chaste kiss. How could you say no?_

That other ‘he’ was his brother. The very same brother that trailed after you now, dragging himself through the dirt as you storm away from the scene of Sigurd’s funeral site. Ivar had been attempting to garner your attention all day. From the moment you woke up, he’s wanted to talk. You evaded his touch and drew away, opting to sleep beside Ubbe despite the fact that your pregnancy kept you up at night.

“Listen to me!” He calls out. You don’t miss a beat, weaving through a site of soldiers. It’s a mean trick. You know Ivar will take longer to catch up to you, but maybe that’s what you want. You don’t want to see him.

“I do not want to hear your lies Ivar!” You reply, waddling as quickly as you could. Which in reality wasn’t quite fast at all, but you can’t bear look at him anymore. In fact, you’re not sure how the man dragging himself behind you is the same man that convinced you of something so definite. He convinced you that he was gifted such strength by the gods.

_“Are you really going to marry him?” Ivar grunts in his chair as you fix the crown of flowers in your hair, taking the earrings Aslaug had meant for you and clipping them through your ear._

_“Well of course, he asked me to marry him. Did you?” You laugh, twirling in your gown. Ivar’s lips form a pout. You don’t really know what he’s so mad about, being that he didn’t propose, so you kiss his forehead in a kiss._

_“You could find better.” He sets his chin down on his fist._

_“Better than a prince?” You slide on your shoes. It’s every woman’s dream to be a princess after all._

_“There’s always a King, (Y/N).”_

_“Who?” You say, feigning looking around. Ivar’s lips still before he speaks. It finally clicked. He wanted you, not just to keep sleeping with him, but to marry him._

_“You?” You suggest, coming to sit beside him. Ivar shrugs his shoulders and withdraws a golden band from his pocket._

_“I can give you far more than Sigurd. I’m beloved by the gods.”_

_It wasn’t Sigurd you married that night._

Beloved by the gods. You hid away beside Ubbe and Hvitserk thinking for certain that no one would show that you didn’t want to see. Perhaps Bjorn but never Ivar. Ubbe held your hand in his, rubbing in light circles to warm your hands.

“How is the baby?” He asks all too concerned like he normally is. You shift to hold the swell of your stomach, drifting back in your seat to finally rest. It had been an awful few days empty of any peace since your former lover passed away.

“He won’t stop moving.” You drawl out, nodding your head back. Your baby squirmed along in your womb even when Ubbe set his hand against the bump. It had been nonstop with the stress as of late. You only came for Ivar to establish his paternal rights to the child, to give the child the Lothbrok name. It was all marred with a nasty streak of who Ivar really was.

“You could talk to him.” Ubbe suggests when dragging across the ground echoes through the room. You turn to find your husband dragging himself in. He climbs onto his chair.

“The only thing I want to speak to Ivar about is a divorce.” You snarl, attempting to push yourself up. Ubbe doesn’t let you, holding you firmly in place there as Ivar flickers his eyes up to yours. His anger flares again when he shouts,

“You are not divorcing me!”

His fists slam onto the table irately. His brothers all flinch back. Its Ubbe moves his body in front of yours as if shielding yourself from what very well might happen. For a moment you fool yourself into thinking that its Sigurd there, lurching himself into Ivar’s face and threatening him for words that he’s said.

But its not.

“Are you going to kill me too? And your baby? Like you killed my Sigurd?” You suggest the words hotly. The tears are pricking the corners of your eyes, dribbling down past your jawline at the suggestion. It isn’t just that he would flare at you. It’s what he did to his family, especially you, in this time. A deep ache settled in Ivar’s jaw and before long, his wild eyes begin to soften as more tears drip at first. The dripping becomes a flood down your cheeks as the iron gates that held you so strong, collapsed entirely.

“You can’t take this back! You can’t fix it Ivar. You took him from me. From our family.” The words wrack up your chest, lodging in your throat and forbidding you from speaking further.

“I did not mean to (Y/N). He was my brother. He should not have tempted me saying such lies.”

Your eyes came together in a tense squeeze, knowing the things that Ivar said were true. Sigurd was a terrible man when it came to his brother. But they both were. It was how the brothers were. You always knew this would be the end: one or the other would kill each other. Yet… now that it came to fruition, you just couldn’t take. You rubbed away the tears with the back of your deep cobalt blue sleeve, wiping the tears away from your face.

“What did he say?” Ubbe intervened with a hand to your back.

“That my son was his. Because (Y/N) was with child soon after our wedding, because I am Boneless.”

Ivar’s desperate eyes shifted off you, landing on his brother. Both brothers knew you slept with both Ivar and Sigurd as did their brothers. It was never something you hid at all. You loved both. If it would have been the other way around, you would have been just as upset.

“The Seer says it is yours. The only words that you should pay attention to are the gods and mine.” You intervene, bringing it all back together. Ivar’s words lose momentum as he glances back to you. Whether he you or not, you inch up to the end of your chair and stand with a light frown. As much as you hate to admit it: Sigurd had it coming. But can you forgive him?

“I can’t lose either of you too.”

You round the table and step forward to Ivar. His blank stare at the table, full of dark guilt turns upon you. His large hand drapes along the heavy curve of your stomach. Compared to Ubbe’s touch, this is the one you long for. Ubbe and Hvitserk interact with Bjorn, none of them believing in Ivar’s intentions as being just reason to kill Sigurd. You know better than that. If he could control it, he would. He just wanted it all to stop. That’s what you tell yourself. Ivar drags himself off the chair, crawling to leave when you walk beside him and waddle your way out after him.

“Are you leaving?”

Are you?

The words bounce around your head. Ivar is unsettled by your silence. Finally you respond back to him, gazing down into the blue of his eyes.

“No. I want to believe you Ivar.”

_I really do._


	28. Just a Toy

He began to think he was blurring the boundaries of what this was. You were his fuck buddy. A fine pair of legs, a round ass and set of big tits at the end of the day. That was all you were supposed to be. A good way to end the day with a cigarette and an ass on his dick. That was all he should have needed. But with Sigurd’s wedding showing and the need for a date he had no choice but to invite you as his date.

Why?

Because even if it was Sigurd’s special fucking day, he’d find a way to ruin his day as well. Mother deserved a son that would let her have some peace at his brother’s wedding. So for her sake, he decided to behave. He knew early on that today was going to be a shit of a day. You shimmied into a tight, sleeveless black dress. His favourite because it had a daring slit and pressed up those beautiful tits he became addicted to.

No. No, he wasn’t addicted. You only had a spectacular body and any man could admit that a woman with high heels was enticing. You especially. You were gorgeous that night, hair done up just how he liked it and the pop of rouge lipstick leaving him wondering if he could sneak you to the back and get your lips around his cock.

“(Y/N)!” His mother called from across the table. “I have been curious for some time now. When did you start dating my Ivar?” She asks. He inhales, looking over to you as you part your lips to answer her.

“Oh! Well, if I can tell you the truth Aslaug. Ivar is just a… boytoy? I would love to have him as my man… but he says he doesn’t have ‘time’ to date.” You feel flush as the words make it out. You twirl a little stick in your boozy drink that once held a fat cherry. As you look over– you knew that you misspoke. Ivar is shaking he’s so angry. But it doesn’t take much for it to get worse.

“What did you just call me?” He leans in against your neck, whispering as his hand drifts up between your black skirt across your inner thighs. You feel him getting closer and closer to a pair of thin silk panties.

“Oh… well. I’m so happy to see him with a woman that can handle him.” Unlike Margrethe, you could hear it in your mind as you reach to grasp Ivar’s shoulders, peeling away that flimsy fabric. You hold back a squeal, pulling the white cloth on top of the table as you try your best to smile and ward off his advances.

But everyone was staring. You have to quickly excuse yourself around the corner, hand at your chest. What the fuck did you tell his mother? Thank you for the fine dinner, but I’m just here to suck some dick? What the fuck! You rush to take out your mirror to fix that make up but find the reflection was far from splotchy lipstick or a smeared smoky eye– no.

“I don’t know what the fuck you thought you were telling my mother. You should have left it at I’m his.” Ivar slams one of his arms beside your head. You turn in the space between he and the wall, finding the way he looks at you so wildly is making a hot mess of your panties. You’re utterly soaked for him.

“But I’m not yours. You made that clear when you said we wouldn’t date.” You supply an excuse just as he slides between your legs.

“On the floor. Now.” He loosens his belt as you comply. You know full and well what’s coming when he slides himself between your legs. You feel his shaft against your lips before Ivar alternates himself to press against your entrance. No rest for you, he shoves himself in to hilt within you. You cry out your squeal as he pushes himself– hard, then harder to hilt. Your hands claw at the ground as he picks up a brutal pace, fucking into your cunt despite the festivities of the day. You can hear the others dancing to a jaunty tune, slicing thick stacks of cake and stuffing themselves while Ivar was stuffing you with his cock.

“Ivar… Ivar please.” Your hips push against his. Ivar bows his head, rocking his hips forward with great pleasure of doing so. You knew this was a shit show. This was to show you that the cripple could fuck you too– as good as men like Ubbe could.

“I’m not yours. You’re mine. Wherever you go, you’re my bitch. You’ll always be my bitch.” Ivar snaps out, filling you with every thrust forward. He’d make you pay for embarrassing him, sliding out your breasts from their silken cups. With every bounce he sends your cunt into overdrive, gripping him like its the last time you’ll have him.

“What if I want another man?” You say, whimpering as your words cause his hand to slap over your pulsing cunt, smacking your slutty clit. It aches for him, begging him to give attention. He did– gladly so, rubbing his thumb into it with waves of hot pressure filling you over.

“Just try it. I’ll kill him.” He whispers into your ear, causing you to moan under the pressure of his cock and wonderful motion of his fingers. In a way, you believed Ivar when he said that he’d kill him. Whoever him was. You cum once under his fingers, spilling over him and squealing, but it isn’t enough for him. He elicits another and another until your clit is pulsing with his attention, arms around his suit jacket when there is a sound of clipping steps.

“Really Ivar? You’re just going to fuck your bitch here?” Sigurd says, looking down past fluffy flaxen hair as Ivar looses control, cumming inside you with a flick of his hips inside. He fills you up, gasping as he bucks out the last few seconds of his orgasm. He pulls out, dragging himself off of you. Sigurd watches as you reach to pull your panties over your spunk filled hole.

Ivar stops you short, dipping his fingers into your hole. “She’s not a bitch. She’s my woman.” As he brings his fingers to your mouth, you swirl your tongue around the union of you bodies. You just couldn’t stop that bright, stupid smile.

You were his woman.


	29. Cold Feet

Everything had to be perfect.

You had made it abundantly clear to Ubbe to keep Ivar away from you. You knew that inviting the complete and total Lothbrok family to your wedding without Ivar would be awkward– and of course you didn’t want to hurt Aslaug. But your ex was insane.

Or maybe he wasn’t insane. Maybe it was the fact that when you found out about the awkward fuck with Margrethe, you dropped him quicker than a mafia man dropped someone with a lead weight strapped to their foot into the pacific blue. Sure, you had been harsh. Harsher still in marrying someone else a little under a year after breaking up with him, but he got what he got. No apologies necessary.

“I know he’s upset Ubbe–” You prattled on the phone, fixing the nude lipstick that lent just a hint of colour to your lips. “But what am I to do about that?”

Across the other line, you heard Ubbe shuffling up the stairs towards the Victorian garden where your wedding was to take place. He mumbled something about talking to Ivar in which you scoffed. You? It wasn’t happening. You were so enveloped in your talk– you didn’t notice the door budging over as you set in the lace edged veil into against your hair, tweaking the elegant updo just slightly.

“So tell him not to come if he’s so distraught. I’m not Aslaug. I’m not going to baby him just because the reality is I’ve moved on.” You say with a pop of your lips.

“Have you?” Comes a voice behind. You turn in a tightly laced mermaid gown to find that it was sooo much easier to say words over a phone… rather than in person. The phone slips from your fingers, buzzing with life from your oldest friend. And boy, are you fucked.

“What… how are you in here?” You say, rushing past him to look at the door. Ivar flashes a bobby pin at you. Probably from Aslaug, you speculate. Always looking to do anything for her favourite.

“That… I… ugh!” You turn back away from the door. “You can’t be in here!”

“I don’t see why not. Did you think you could hide from me?” Ivar says, leaning on a black crutch as you sneer at him with a cute wrinkle of your nose. His free arm grasps your arm donned in glittering jewels, jerking you forth contrasting your white dress against his sleek, black suit. You curse him– knowing that he wore it on purpose. You always asked him to wear one– but your bad boy never would. Not until today.

“I was trying to keep you away!” You shout, finding that Ivar is only delighted as you yell at him, sliding his hand underneath the seam that separates bunched layers from the tight bodycon that cups your ass.

“Huh. Don’t you know you’re mine?” Ivar says, letting his hand drift underneath the skirts. You fluster with his hands stroking the inside of your thighs, shoving his chest. He still stands strong on his crutch, fingers gliding up across the white lace panties that tight against your ass. As two of his fingers massage against the underside of your panties, you feel your will wilting away like dark, melting chocolate.

“I’m getting married.” Your hand wraps around the chunky watch on his wrist– lacking the will to pull his hands away. You lean into his touch, grinding up against him.

“Of course. You’ll marry me. You think I would let you be this beautiful for anyone else?” Ivar chides, having pushed up the bunched fabric just over your hips– enough so that his hand could slip into the top of your panties.

“You certainly didn’t have a problem doing so with Margrethe.” You pout instantaneously. He knows immediately what this whole show-and-dance of a wedding was. You weren’t actually genuinely interested in this guy. No, you wanted to make Ivar squirm with jealousy knowing that the man that was going to marry you… wasn’t him.

Ivar’s fingers glide across the midline of your panties, stroking down your soaked walls to your clit. You lost all semblance of fight when he gives the nub love, rolling it in his fingers just so. When a moan slips your lips, Ivar pulls his finger of the clit.

“Tell me you won’t marry him.” Ivar mumbled, rubbing the pesky wet excitement that you coated him in over your fingers. You had made a mistake– a grave one by letting him touch you. But one touch became another and another until your walls are aching for his fingers again. You lean up against him with a whine. Your fiance couldn’t fill this need. He couldn’t even get you off right. But you had gone with it– hoping that he could be a substitute for Ivar.

He couldn’t.

“Fu… fuck you!” You snarled out. Ivar chuckled, snapping his fingers together and motioning to the ground. He wanted you on your knees before him. Like a fool you comply– if not for missing the orgasms that he gave you day in and out less than a year ago. Ivar drew the zipper of his pants down– slowly. As his cock hit the cool air, you could have drooled. His hard shaft stands pink and erect, the tip drooling such excitement from seeing you so dolled up.

“Please… please…” You whined, knowing how you must look as someone else’s bride on the floor. Ivar chuckles, grasping the back of your head and leading you up towards his dick. You take his tip in at first, but Ivar’s insistent, shoving you down his dick in a harsh swoop. You take him gladly, sputtering a little cough as you pull back, dragging your tongue across the underside of his dick to where his shaft met his head. He watched as you took him back down again, then came back up with a flat lick across the tip of your head. Your hands found the creamy white fabric of your wedding dress, gripping it tight between your fingertips.

“If he could see you now.” Ivar chuckled, pulling back just enough to pull his cock out of your mouth. “You want it?”

You whined at the emptiness but Ivar– Ivar had another plan. He nudges his cock up against your cheek, teasing you with being so close as to have him where he belonged: inside of you. He wore an amazingly amused look, eyebrows tightening and eyes becoming slant. You knew better than that– he was close.

You whined at the emptiness– enough to sate him to shove his dick back into your mouth. This time your hands flew to his hips, almost jerking him off of his crutch. You hollow your cheeks, sucking him more forcefully. Ivar winced, his hands at your beautiful hair when he buckled forward with a hiss. His seed releases into your mouth, salty on your tongue but no matter– you suck him of the last bout of his seed while he breathily moans out your name.

Then just like that, you slide him from your painted lips, catching the last bit of his seed on your tongue. Your eyes peer up to him as he breathes– winded. “Tell me you won’t marry him.” Ivar rasps.

You contemplate it for a moment. “Then you had better marry me instead.” Because well– you didn’t arrange this wedding for nothing.


	30. His Gift

Gift, they said. You were a gift to the new King Ivar the Boneless. In exchange for the lives of the royal family, which later ended up being killed off anyway, you were given. All of the royal family but you: an illegitimate princess who was at the moment, squirming on the King’s bed. Your hands shoved the braided edges of Ivar’s head down. The sweat beaded down your neck, coursing around your body as you pled with Ivar to give you a break. His tongue had been at it for what felt like hours, swirling inside your entrance and drinking you up like a potion.

“Please– please! I can’t cum anymore.” You sobbed out. Ivar’s fingers entered you abruptly, sliding in and out of your body.

“I’m not yours, little girl. You’re mine. You’ll do what I want you to do.” Ivar said, scissoring his fingers if only to see you squeal.

“Oh fuck! I’m your gift but– but I need a break.”

Ivar didn’t answer. Instead he dipped back down, flicking his tongue along the little nub that was your clitoris. Everytime you thought you couldn’t– He made you. Everytime you wanted the pleasure to break, Ivar made you ride it out like a good girl. Another orgasm ripped through your body, juices spilling from your cunt as you rode his fingers, desperate for more stimulation than this. Ivar’s face was buried deep in your cunt when you realized something.

He wasn’t just addicted to seeing you cum. He was addicted to the taste of you. You shuddered as he worked his fingers again within you, eyes knit tightly shut. “You’re mine regardless of what you think…” You muttered, finding that the King was far less interested in your words than your juices.


	31. On Your Knees

Thrall. The word meant what it meant– and after Margrethe, it meant Ivar was also overcompensating. If he… If he had just taken you! Then this would never have happened. But yet, it didn’t. Now you dealt with the consequences. You kneeled in front of your master as he sat on the bed, sliding your slick digits over your needy, unused cunt. The first time he touched you, he woke something buried deep in you. You needed more every time. Now, all you wanted him to do was get inside of you.

“I told you not to do that.” Ivar swatted your hands away from your slick. His fist would dig deep in your long hair, shoving you down onto his dick.

“Open. Work for me. You aren’t getting what you want by whining like a bitch.” He commanded, a shoving your mouth down over his cock as soon as you complied. He used your hair like a handle, pumping himself in and out of your mouth. You sucked him up in your mouth, sliding up to his tip when Ivar shoved you back down. Even if you wanted to prove yourself– Ivar would give you no choice, fucking himself into your mouth until you ripped away for air. Your throat was burning hot.

All because of Margrethe.


	32. Mother May I?

Fucking Ivar wasn’t always the easiest thing to do. Especially not when he overheared gossip with his brothers about the women around. There were a few that worked at his father’s company that the boys hadn’t fucked.

“How about (Y/N)?” He overheard Ubbe say, glancing over his shoulder as you strutted by. A tight little pencil skirt and a white blouse that Hvitserk swore was sheer accentuated everything that his brothers didn’t need to be seeing. Ivar’s fingers cringed against the keys of his laptop when he heard Hvitserk’s chide.

“Well… milf isn’t a bad word.” Hvitserk mused, glacing as you bent to pick something up for Sigurd, having bumped into him.

“Let’s see if we can get her to go drink.” Ubbe’s lips pulled up when Ivar slammed his laptop shut, stuffing it in his bag. He reached out to fist Ubbe’s button down shirt, yanking him nearly on top of the table.

“She’s mine.” Ivar hissed, shoving him back into his chair. He reached for his crutch, stepping in line to go find where you slipped off to. Out of the cafeteria, up the elevator and by your desk? Nothing. But he heard the click of your heels leaving the bathroom– shoving you back inside where you fell onto the ground with a grunt. Ivar clicked the lock, trapping whatever pathetic woman had been caught in there with the both of you.

“I– Ivar I can’t get caught again. I need my job for Alva…” You mumbled, sliding onto your knees before him. He unbuckled his pants, withdrawing his dick into the cool air. You stared– he was already hard? Ivar grabbed your shoulder, maneuvering onto the ground. His lips melded over yours, caressing your breasts in his large hands while you– shamefully so, went back on your word. You ran your hand up to the tip of his dick, stroking him with the beads of his excitement. Ivar popped off the buttons to your top, sliding your tits free of their top.

He then turned his attention lower between your folds, finding that he didn’t have to work himself hard. You were aching for his love– like he always did at lunch despite his mother having caught you sucking him off under his desk just last week. Aslaug wouldn’t fire you because he wouldn’t allow it.

“You’re going to fuck me in front of the mirror. Watch yourself for me.” Ivar slid over by the window, pulling his legs around before guiding you to straddle him. You obeyed without question, sliding him into your desperate walls. He quickly slid inside of you and without saying anything else, lifted your hips up to pull him almost out before pushing him back in.

“Keep going, I know you want it.” Ivar leaned back on his forearm, bucking his hips up into you as much as he could. Behind you, Ivar shuffled with his bag. You slide him back in just as Ivar leans up with his phone, snapping a click of the shutters of his camera.

“What are you doing?” You ask, just as Ivar drops the phone to the side, pulling you down against his chest by your chest.

“Showing my brothers whose woman you are. Is that okay?” Ivar whispered in your ear, tugging at the lobe between his teeth. You squeezed him between your wet walls, tits bouncing with every thrust back onto him. Despite being his fuckbuddy, you hadn’t heard such things in a while– a long, long while. You had been alone for so long.

“Y- Yes.” You groan. “Fuck yes.”

Ivar grinned– now Ubbe and Hvitserk would know better next time.


	33. Take a Break

You didn’t have time for Ivar.

Your father was out raiding and your mother had passed. That meant for you, you had to care for your new home with father not having found another bride. So yes, the thralls were working the fields but you had a hefty list of yourself inside: skimming milk, making cheese, preserving fruits and vegetables, making a brew, sweeping, scrubbing, cooking, dusting, changing the straw out, weaving and sewing and–

“Ivar just get it out, what do you have to tell me?” You asked, running around the large wooden bed in the middle of your father’s room. There were boats spotted. He would be home soon. Everything had to be in perfect condition when he came back, just like if your mother was still alive.

“Sit down.” Ivar panted. Your lover dragged himself to follow you about the room like he had for much of the morning. Anytime that he tried you were supposedly busy. He couldn’t wrangle you away from the house for a few minutes on the beach or in the river.

“I don’t have time. Just say what you have to say.” You pulled the sheets upon your father’s bed. There was something different about Ivar today. He was cool headed for much of the morning, but more and more you saw him become his usual cranky ass self. Your little brother at no more than twelve years old tried to push you to sit.

“He has to talk to you.” He said, picking up the basket of laundry you fussed over. “It’ll just be a minute!”

“I don’t have time to talk to Ivar, Josurr.” You whined, trying to take a mental count of everything you had done. You stood up just as quickly when Ivar flopped back onto his forearms with a bark of a growl.

“Fuck! Forget it! I just wanted to ask you to marry me!” Ivar slung his fist into the leg of the bed, rattling you not just with his force, but with his words. You dropped the edge of the sheets as you fell down to your knees in front of him.

“You… you want to be my husband?” You say. You inch closer with a gleaming grin.

“No, I just said it to hear myself talk.” Ivar bit back, pouting now.

Lurching over, you smacked the back of his head. “Be serious.” You reprimand, moving to set a hand on his lap. “Say it again.”

Ivar’s eyes glare off to the side. “Will you… I want you to marry me.” He grumbles, arms folding one over another as he slumps back against the foot of the bed. You move your other hand over his lap on all fours, almost giggly at his words. Still grouchy. You can’t help yourself.

“Say it again.” You say, his cheeks warming.

“Fuck woman! Are you going to be my wife or not?!” He snarls out and just as quickly, you throw yourself on top of him, jerking him down onto the ground on top of you with interlocked lips. Your lips slide against his, keeping him hostage against your pillowy lips.

“Of course I’ll marry you!” You whisper against his lips, squeezing one of his cheeks affectionately. Ivar dropped his head against yours just as the shuffling of feet and clearing of breath separate your lips completely.

“Welcome home, Daddie.”


	34. Mama's Boy

Your little boy was grown. Six feet tall with honey bright hair that waved around his face, lining his strong jawline. He was handsome– and often attracted the attention of Omegas on their heats. You loved your little boy more than love itself and most definitely Ivar. He slunk into the Great Hall, holding his cheek as he tried to hide himself from Ivar and you.

“Uxi!” You caught him out the corner of your eye, pacing behind Hvitserk when you popped off of your throne. Your son paces a little quicker almost shrieking when you darted out upon him. His hands fell tight on your waist.

“Mother!” He squeak out, looking down with purple splotching across his high cheekbones. You tip up on your tippy toes, cradling his smooth face. Your thumbs grazd across his bruises out toward the short hair of his sideburns.

“Did someone hurt you baby?” You say. Uxi’s head hangs slightly, electric bright eyes alternating up to look through his shot eyelashes.

“Mother please… I’m fine.” Uxi rolls his slender lip into his mouth. “Thorir thought I was trying to take his omega. He jumped me.”

If there was one thing that bothered you worse than someone hurting your baby– it was the low act of attacking him when his back was turned. How was he to defend himself? He couldn’t. That pissed you off even more.

“I took care of it mother.” You hear him say– but stubborn you, marching your ass through the Great Hall as a his eyes dropped to the wood planks. Uxi kept his head low as Ivar took up his crutch and made his way over to you.

“Where IS HE?!” You fist a man’s tunic, shaking him up in his seat as he struggles to stand. The boy, a young cousin of Thorir, stumbles when you threw him across a wall. Your hands cup over his throat, strangling the very air out of his lungs.

“My Queen–”

“Tell me or I’ll rip your dick off next!” You shrill.

“He’s there! He’s there!” The young beta shrieks– pointing out toward the cabin when Ivar grasps your upper arm.

“It’s Uxi’s battle to fight.” He says, pulling his attention towards yours with eyes against his. One look and he knows though. His little mama bear– the monster he made with so many babies, isn’t going to let it go. Your eyes scan him down once before your body undulates to the side.

“Oh aren’t you the one to talk, mama’s boy.” You snap back at him. “Get out of my way, I’ll do it myself if I have to.”

You brush by him– and for your normally calm demeanor, he knows you mean it when you threaten the other boy. Uxi comes beside his father, wiping the dried blood from his eyebrow. You storm out of the Great Hall– and the birds flock away under your heavy stride.

“She’s going to go drown him isn’t she?” Uxi says.

Ivar reclines on his crutch, looking to his young son. “Of course she is going to drown him. She certainly isn’t going to talk.”

Uxi gave a small smile, slipping out of the doors of the hall. Right– he should probably go make sure and see that his beautiful mother was safe.


	35. Knotty

Since Ivar became the commander of the Great Army, you felt the change. It wasn’t just the very slim number of Omegas devouring his attention, but the Betas and even Alphas. It didn’t matter the sex– they all seemed enticed by your beloved mate. It was far too much for you to handle knowing they all had their eye on him. Especially when he never made public display of his affections for you. Everyone just… knew better than to touch you. You tried to trust that your bond mate would respect the boundaries…

Except you forgot– other people would not. So when you caught that pretty little blonde shimmying her way up to Ivar, you didn’t just beat her. No, it needed far more than a beating would allow you to claim ownership of your beloved Ivar. You didn’t give a shit about their little meetings. Ivar, Harald and Hvitserk could eat shit all together if they didn’t think that you would walk in there in nothing more but a thin nightgown. Ivar almost sat down his cup to yell when you slunk across the room, pulling out his chair and scaling him like a tree.

Harald brings his fingers to his mouth, pressing in the fruit while you slide your skirt up, chucking it across the room onto Hvitserk.

“What are you doing woman? They’re watching.” Ivar leans in with a snarl, hands grasping behind your naked ass as if to shield what little of your body he could from the older king– and a cheeky grinning brother of his. The room rank of an Alphas scent, Ivar’s clashing agaisnt Haralds. Ivar’s wild eyes shift up to Harald’s as if in a challenge, but the older Alpha only chuckles, throwing his hands up and relaxing back.

Your hips undulated against his. “I know they’re watching. That is the point.” You lean up against Ivar’s scent marks on his neck, opening your mouth to latch onto the mark with your teeth. Ivar grunts hard– saving face for Harald’s presence. A Beta like Hvitserk is no challenge to him. Harald’s hand shifts down, massaging his growing erection in his pants as your breasts grinds up against Ivar’s flat chest, cunt smearing fluids against his lazy trousers.

“You’re so greedy, Earl (Y/N).” Harald says behind you, scooting his chair away from the table where they spoke of stratagem. He finally withdraws his cock from his pants, the shaft hard and proud in his hand. He lazily strokes up to his tip, sipping of his mead. Hvitserk sits forgotten, simply staring at the edge of his seat.

“She never has enough.” Hvitserk remarks when your teeth pop from Ivar’s neck.

You growl back at Ivar, fiddling with his pants. “Enough, (Y/N).” Ivar tries to deter you. To no avail, you slide his cock free of his pants and shift up on his chest, your hand leading the tip that drools with precum to your pulsing cunt. Ivar’s hands come upon your hips in protest but you defy him by smothering his cock in your cunt. He buckles, leaning forward against you.

“I can always just take what I want. I can take anything from you.” You rasp. Your hands find his shoulders as the older King Harald watches, elbowing Hvitserk to do the same. Your best friend seems almost shy to do som but in time, he loses himself under the smell of your sweet fertility that wafts the air. The sweetly pungent smell seems to penetrate every lick of the room– and Hvitserk can almost taste it on his tongue. Inevitably his hand comes atop of his cock, massaging himself in time with Harald’s quickening thrusts of the shaft.

“You’re asking for punishment.” Ivar grumbles. “Fucking yourself on my dick in front of Harald–”

“As if you could punish me. You’re mine.” You snap back, thrusting him deep inside pulsing wet walls. Your heat is close– you can feel it, and this little push could throw him into a rut. That’s what you want of course. You want to ruin his plans, to make him want and need more of your body that milks him of his dick of his spunk. His stomach boils with the hot heat signaling the swelling of his knot. He knows it won’t be long at that, but as his eyes catch Harald’s trifling eyes, he feels pressure to hold out.

“I’m not yours– you’re my breeding bitch.” Ivar snaps back, teasing with the words he knows you like. You laugh at that, hands grasping the sides of his stubbly face.

“Prove you’re not a bitch then.” You challenge back to the tune of Harald’s amused whistling. Harald tilts his head, eyes barely visible under the tattooing of his face as he bucks into his hand. Ivar thrusts his hips forward, holding the arms of his chair for some stability in doing so. His roars echo through the room, likely out as well. Your hands stay on his face as you move, hot puffs of breath tickling his lips as he moves you like a toy. You challenge his hold on your hips, mashing and undulating on him. His cock feels as if it rattles bundles of nerves inside. Each better than the last, pushing you farther and farther until at last– you feel his knot swelling thick to lock you into place.

You won.

It’s Ivar’s spunk that coats down your walls with a frenzied thrust– unable to move anywhere with his knot locking him in place inside of you. He grits his teeth, holding back any pathetic screams when you too cum. Your walls milk him of his seed in contractions of your walls about him. You both aren’t alone however, as ribbon’s of Harald’s spunk spill over your round ass on Ivar’s lap while Hvitserk’s head drops back. His tongue caresses his lower lip.

“I win.” You tell Ivar, forcing his lips into a harsh and unforgiving kiss as you milk him dry. Ivar laments bitterly on it when you pop him in the face.

“Let anyone dance on your lap again, and I won’t dance on yours anymore.” You warn. Ivar stares at you skeptically. It’s pretty hard to take your words seriously when yes, it’s his knot that keeps you in place.

“Then who?” He laughs. You were addicted to sex.

“Harald?” You look over your shoulder, loose curls and braids teasing your ass.

“Hm?” He already knows what you’re going to ask of him. I could warm your dick, right? But when you actually say it– it’s Ivar snarling out threats.

He laughs.


	36. All of the Things

All of Sigurd’s things were his.

It didn’t matter if it was a flimsy knife or the most beautiful of possessions. And the most beautiful of his possessions? An expensive, delicious thrall that mother had bought for him. Your curves were heavy and his fucker of a brother was abusing the knowledge that they both liked women of a heavier size. There was just that much more to enjoy– and that was why he mocked Ivar.

Your dresses were ornate, despite being a thrall, sometimes exposing your midriff and lined in gold. The fragrant colors and layered fabric was enticing enough, but you often smelled amazing. Ivar made it a point to make sure you knew as much, his hand shifting up along your ass, smoothing over a cream dress that fell over your round ass as you cleaned the floor.

You turned to look at him, gold jingling on the headpiece that sits under a creamy headscarf. It’s the youngest Ragnarsson again– here to play more games like he had before. You shudder as Ivar peels back your creamy gowns, here to see what mess Sigurd has left before him, no doubt. He moans in approval when he finds that a rope rests in between your lips, rubbing the plush skin of your hips under a long dress.

“He… he’s going to get mad.” You say as Ivar slides his face between your cheeks, mouthing and kissing at the roundness of your ass. Ivar laughs, drawing his hand to spank your ass harshly.

“You’re mine regardless of what you think. You think I care what he says? Keep cleaning.” Ivar growls out, a hush whisper in your ear as he drops between your legs. As he disappears under your skirts, he gives you harsh bites higher and higher until you feel his tongue flatly stroking your outer labia.

“Yes…” You murmur, gasping as he tugs on the well placed rope. It rubs your cunt just right– and you rub back and forth against it. You take up your brush, scrubbing the floor as Ivar trills a laugh against your lips.

“If you could only look at yourself thrall,” Ivar pulls off, lips soaked with your slick excitement. “You’re a mess.”

And even though you can’t see it– you can feel it. How wet you’ve become for him in such a short while, moving with the rope rubbing clit and entrance both. You want to cum. You really want to cum! Ivar’s fingers dip under the tight rope, tugging it to the side to slip his fingers inside your cunt.

You gasp, losing control of the brush as Ivar moves his fingers deep, flicking the tips of his fingers and then withdrawing his fingers out. He surfaces, pulling the end of your braid back to tilt your head. His fingers shove your slick into his mouth, making sure that you taste your excitement. Your tongue swirls around his thick fingers, suckling your juices off before you would pop off– causing Ivar to groan audibly.

“Yes… you really are mine.” He makes out. “I’ll have to make sure he knows that too.”


	37. Scent

The pheromones in the air kept Ivar in a constant state of pissed off. His dick was aching with how hard he had been stroking it with oil all night and well into the day for many, many days. In fact, his brothers had been doing the same. The scent would have slipped under even Hvitserk’s beta skin– if he was here.

“What the fuck!” Ivar snarled in this stifling little cabin– rattling his brothers from their thoughts. Sigurd was the first to look up and roll his eyes. Ivar took the nearest goblet to chuck in his direction, a rattling growl tearing itself up his throat in his frustration.

“What is it Ivar?” Ubbe asked evenly. He was pacing like he had much of the day, side to side when Ivar hissed. Keep his mind even and keep his brothers from tearing one another apart like they might if he let himself succumb to that richly decadent smell of her fertile womb, begging to be seeded and–

“What kind of omega can’t hide her heat from us?! I can’t smell anything past her!” Ivar’s fingers repeatedly flickered his dagger through the air, whirling and whizzing aggressively. Sigurd’s hands in his thick blond mop keep him focused. Patience… he tries to convince himself as he hums something to the hum of his Oud.

“She’s just broken through her heats recently.” Sigurd says. She was a late bloomer– and with every heat, it only seems to get worse. That was why she was here like a bird in a cage, drawing the boys into a heated frenzy.

“Do I give a fuck?” Ivar shoves his hands up into the air. “All I fucking smell is her. I need her. I can’t get it out of my head!”

Ubbe stops pacing, his cock kissing the fabric of his stained pants. “You think I can?”

“Then lets fucking breed her and get it over with so I can stop smelling her all day! It’s not getting better!” Ivar snarls out, his dagger coming to a stop in his hand. He grips it tightly when Ubbe’s head tilts to the side, folding his arms defensively to the suggestion.

“Breed Harald’s daughter?” He suggests. Sigurd’s eyes begin to roll so hard he thinks they might get stuck in his head.

“Then why the FUCK would he leave her with me? With you or you?” Ivar snaps. He shoves himself off of his seat, dragging himself toward the door when Sigurd beats him to the door.

“MOVE.” Ivar snarls. When his older brother doesn’t, of course, what else is an alpha to do but stab him in the foot? The blade of his dagger dug deep past the fabric, causing him to howl out in pain and Ubbe to call his name as Ivar drags himself out. With Sigurd dispatched, Ivar drags himself toward the area he knew she was in, thrashing and moaning in the sheets. The scent thickened the closer he got, the saturation thicker than honey over his nose. He couldn’t recall how he dragged himself onto your bed, a thin nightgown covering your moist hole that was stuffed with your fingers trying to will just one more orgasm out of your heat. Your noises were desperately wanton– hips buckling up into your fingers for a little more of the useless friction.

Useless because it wasn’t a knot. Useless because it wasn’t Ivar’s knot tugging your walls– making you scream his name for all of Kattegat to hear. Then suddenly, a voice that draws chills down your spine.

“How is that working for you?” Ivar snarks. Your hips buckle up to the low, reproachful trill of his tongue.

“Frigg– ahhh, ahhh!” You cry out. “Alpha– Iv… Ivar why… did it have to be you?” You whine– knowing how Ivar knows that its not his brothers you’ve always wanted. It’s all him, it always had been.

He retracts the fingers out of your cunt forcefully. Then, he takes each of those digits into his mouth for a wet suckle, the taste of which is almost more enticing than the smell of your heat. It falls over his tongue bittersweetly, teasing him of what all he could have. His tongue swirls along the tips of your digits, suckling each before releasing them. His chest is heavy, pushing up and down as he takes in your decadent smell. He had to get in you quick, before Ubbe came storming down the hall to try and peel him off.

“He doesn’t have the balls to take you.” Ivar exclaims, pinning your squirming hips down. “But I do.”

Ivar slides his dick along your folds, slickening himself in your sweet heat before he would angle his tip down lower. He sought out that aching hole and as he finds it, pushes– hard. He finds it hardly resists him with how hard you teased your body earlier. It isn’t by force that he makes you take his cock. Your hips so willingly lean up against his, swallowing him inside with the sultriest of moans. You suddenly feel so full of the prince and such pressure inside has your walls weeping around him, squeezing him tight.

“Feeling good, princess?” Ivar asks despite the fact that his eyes are screwed so tight, tension is strewn on his forehead. His body is almost rigid when he opens again, finding the sight below him most appeasing. Your fingers flicker in your hair, begging him to go on. It’s as if you’re waiting to be impressed.

“Almost– prince.” You say. Sweat slicks your skin underneath that flimsy little nightgown. Harald was a fool. To think that he delivered his beautiful flower almost directly onto his cock.

“Oh fuuuucccck.” Your moan drags every inch of him in just as he takes his first thrust out. The slick makes it easy for him to slide out fully, a controlled thrust back in to warm you up to his thrusts.

“Moooreeee!” You hiss, reaching out to drag Ivar fully on top of you. Ivar’s nose rubs against the slick of your neck. He rumbles in preference for the option. Fuck the slow: his pretty princess needed it quick. He begins to swiftly shove himself in, brutalizing you with the force as he came down inside of you. You’re suddenly more and more aware that you aren’t (Y/N) to him– but his prey. He sought you out, he claimed you and now, his cock plundered your aching cunt. He filled the ache and need for a dick, filling the need completely as he used you.

“He wants to take you from me. But you’re mine!” Ivar snarls.

Behind you, you can hear the rattle of Ubbe’s boots pounding down the hall to find you– stuffed full of his little brother. How you ache to see the look on his face with your hands tight in Ivar’s hair, receiving his thrusts like a good breedee. The rumbling of Ivar’s chest heightens as he smells his brother coming closer. Closer to take his toy away? Ivar becomes determined to stick his seed into your slick heat, rage and complete your heat by him– perhaps ride it out with the little one that used to tease him so mercilessly as a blonde haired child.

“Aaah… alp…” Your bite back your cry out for him. Alpha– everyone would mock you. Ubbe curses as Ivar’s cock pumps hard and fast, filling you with a deep need every time he pulled out. Harald would be enraged when he found out. He holds the doorframe as your lips degenerate with the constant– in and out, in and out. It’s quick that Ivar’s knot begins to expand– and Ubbe’s window of interception fleeting smaller and smaller by the second as the thick muscle locks you on his cock. The ring of muscle tugs at bundles of sweet nerves as Ivar struggled for more friction, seeking out to claim you by his knot if at all possible– more.

“Alpha!” You squeal out your sweet end. A sudden hotness takes over Ivar’s back when he realizes your nails have slipped under his tunic, drawing hot pulsing red marks from his shoulder blades down. Your hips are desperate for more stimulation– and as Ivar hits his own end, he gasps out against your neck, spilling his sweet seed through your tight little cunt. His thick strings of cum paint you wonderfully, causing that itch of need for seed to be soothed, but your hips still rock. It wasn’t over yet. It couldn’t be.

“What are you going to tell father?” You say, locked in place on his dick. He stares boredly at you– a redundant question.

“He shouldn’t have left you here if he didn’t want you seeded.” Ivar hisses, looking to his knot that holds you tight. Ubbe slunk away from the door– back toward the dark areas of the home where Sigurd was nursing his wound. You can’t help but wonder– was that what your father actually had in mind by leaving you with the remaining Ragnarssons?


	38. Second Chances

It had been months since you last saw your ex-husband. You had left him under dubious circumstances in which you fell out over a miscarriage. In any case you knew he was the only place to turn to after this. Your stomach was gaping and bloody. The only neighboring camp that of your ex husband’s, who at the moment, was enemy of your husband.

“Shieldmaiden!”

The people scatter as you grasp the head of a pointed plank. Your wound was spread wide open, drooling down your stomach. It burns rawly. There are hushed whispers from dark shadowy figures in your fuzzy field of vision and it doesn’t take a much for you to know why.

You told him you would never come back.

“Let us through.” The first voice you recognized. Hvitserk. It was Hvitserk. Your feet hit the mucky grass around you, sludging one of your hands in mud. You hardly felt the grain just like you hardly heard Ivar’s voice in a low chilling trill.

“You’ve made the gods laugh.”

It was pointless to ask why. You were in his camp. He must have assumed you were here to plead with him to take you back as his wife.

“I need help.” You say more to the wood lining his camp than him.

“So stand up and ask me to my face.” Ivar says cruelly. You’re not sure if he can see your stomach, nor the blood meshed with mud. Your body protests the movement of your legs. your hand sunk through mud with a grunt.

“Stand up, ex-wife. If the cripple king can do it, so can you.” Ivar takes a step closer and you would claw your hand into the beams.

“Ivar…” You gasp for the words. The other Ragnarsson begins as you rise up. Your bloodied face in line with his, eyes dark with apprehension. Stand tall, you remind yourself. You have to stand tall. Your body didn’t have the same sentiment. You all but fall face forwards when he catches you by throwing out an arm, it fallsnaround your armour of black chainmail and pleats of black. It takes only seconds for him to realize that the blood isn’t from your position commanding an army on the field, but rather your own blood.

“No!” He snarls out, looking to Hvitserk. “Get me a healer!”

Your head gave a last painful pulse before you slacken against him.

 

It was a lot of in and out. In and out of consciousness— in and out of watching Ivar shadow the back of the room as if he had something to prove to you by being there. Stupid bastard was fine prattling off when you were being stitched up.

“Did someone hurt you?” He asked over and over again.

“No I walked into my own sword.” Was your simplistic reply as he bore at your open wound that disappeared stitch by stitch. Highly drunk on ale or mead that tasted like piss, you slumped in his bed with a drunken moan until finally, you felt slightly less delusional after a few days.

“So who was it?” He asks on the corner of his bed. The warm furs felt familiar to you, etched with the scent of fresh grass, the ale of his lips and his own decadent smell that felt like home.

“Who do you think?” You rasp. “My husband of course.”

Ivar’s fist curls by his lips. “Why would be do that?”

He knew your husband to be the sort of man to shake you in front of him like a prize. Like he had earlier that week at a war council. Not the type to gut you wide open.

“Because I pick shitty husbands who think that my profession is hopping cock to cock, not fighting.” You snap at him, slicing straight through him with your heated words. You don’t care. You’re angry— hurt. Your stomach burns and mostly, you want him to hurt too.

“I never said that.” He snarls.

“You never said I love you either but I believed that crock of shit too.” You snap back his hand uncurls, flicking toward you.

“I do love you.” He crawls closer, dragging his legs behind him. You curse yourself for being so sore. You couldn’t get off the bed like you usually would. Storm off and make him chase you to apologize. No. You could only sit there in disarray.

“So much you accused me of cheating on you.” You snap. The strain and areas of your words brings an ache back to your chest you thought you had banished away.

“Because I cannot have children.” Ivar snaps back. You had tried— for a year. Then when it finally took, Ivar couldn’t take it.

“You accused me while I was bleeding out our child. The little one I wanted so much.” You find that you’re beginning to sob out tears, breaking down quite literally in front of him. If possible— it pissed you off moreso and your fist collides with the bed in frustration.

“Fuck! Just leave me alone!” You shriek, attempting to push him off the bed as his arms prop him up on either side of your hips. His arms are sturdy and his taut muscles in his shoulders more so. There was really no escaping him.

“We can try for another.” He suggests– knowing in his heart that you hadn’t cheated on him. He always did, deep in his heart. He… was enraged. He lashed out against you. It was as if you hadn’t divorced and left him. But you had.

 

“I don’t forgive you. And! I’m married.” You say as if to wag it in his face just like you did at that ridiculous war council. At the very minimum you knew Ivar was jealous the whole time that you interacted with him. It was as if he was going to explode any time you kissed the other man. Err, your husband.

“I see that worked out for you.” He snorts. You do too– your snarky ex husband was right. You had grounds to divorce your husband. He disrespected and attacked you with his blade. You could divorce him easily and marry Ivar again.

“What have you done to prove to me you’re worthy?” You ask. Of course– last time, he won your hand over chess against your father. A sneaky tactic when the old man was alive. Now the only man you had in your life was your Ivar.

“This again?” Ivar drops his lips down to yours, finding that your finger taps on his pucker, one tap, two tap, three tap.

“Beat me at chess.” Your finger drops down his chin, tapping his adams apple. Ivar scoffs as if it would be no hard thing to do. He quickly swipes your lips in a kiss, lips moving against yours with a wet exchange of tongues. You hadn’t realized how much you missed the tickle of his slight moustache against your lips or the way he hovered over you like the king he was always in your eyes. Your noses bump and he chides against your lips.

“I already have.”


	39. Enchanted by Fire

You weren’t aware how important such a knife was to Ivar. Years after Ragnar’s death, Sigurd’s death, the knife remained on Ivar’s person. The same knife he used to end Lagertha– was being used in your kitchen as an ordinary kitchen knife. Or at least, it was, until Ivar found it in your hand at dinner.

_“That isn’t an ordinary knife!”_

_“Oh but its sharp and perfect!”_

_“Do you know where its been?!”_

You didn’t understand… and you thought flashing those beautiful eyes at him and flicking that fiery red hair that first lured him to you would work. Not this time, he told himself as he tosses and turns in bed. No. He wasn’t going to do it. He was going to sit here and fall into an angry sleep. However, there was no sleep for him when you weren’t in bed. He knew you would do as you usually did– sleep in any of the pairs of twin’s bed that you bore him.

Except this time was different. He couldn’t pretend that he could sleep and later crawl into bed with you and his sons or daughters when he felt a little less pathetic. No, this time, he needed just you in his bed. His muscled arms fold one over another, snug on his chest as he curls in his lips, tickling the lower lip with the buds of his moustache. Fine, he told himself, fine.

“(Y/N)!” He calls out. Its only seconds later that you peep in, peering through burning hot hair at him. The look in your eyes past strands of red smolders him already. He curses himself for having called you.

“Are you still mad?” You ask him.

He rolls his eyes. “Of course I’m still mad.” Ivar says while separating the sheets of your marital bed apart. “Come to bed with me, my little witch.”

You slink forth, curling into the bed and inching– little by little most inconspicuously to your favourite spot. He grumbles when you manage it, cheek on his chest and legs weaving against his, stroking the spots that were frequently sore. You knew every ache and cranny of his body after so many years of marriage. It hasn’t grown stale despite him swearing that it would.

“Go to sleep.” You whisper.

Like the grouch he is, he angrily pouts as your soft touches lull him into submission. He swears that you are a fiery witch with some sort of dark magic casting over his bones. The worst of aches and pains can be soothed with the softest of your touches. No other woman could do this. No other woman could make him so peaceful. A part of him hates you for that.


	40. Only When You Need Me

The only time Ivar felt at peace was in his dreams. There was no talk of Sigurd and the man he became by executing him, a world where his mother did not need to be avenged because she was still with him and most of all, the anger that consumed him was no longer there. All of those things were easier when his mind was at rest wrapped in furs. But those wonderful dreams could easily be trampeled– and they were, when he felt his bed creak. He lurched up in his bed, knife meeting the fleshy body of your neck.

Wait– your neck.

“What the fuck!” Ivar rubs the sleep of his eyes, the blurry spots in his vision clearing as he takes you in. A meager little creamy nightdress, hair down from your elaborate braids that tucked your hair behind your back and– and you were shifting back against his chest despite the knife against your throat.

“How did you get here, woman?” Ivar hisses.

He recalls you. You’re the woman he’s found himself in bed with many times– many times when he’s too far out of his head to know any better. When he was sober, you never seemed to be around.

“Cuddlin’.” You slur drunkenly. He recognizes the smell of ale on your tongue by the sloppy way you press your lips to him, lips running together in several sloppy kisses.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to sleep?” He asks, lips marked by the several kisses. Ivar pushes his hands through your curtain of hair, grasping your shoulders.

“But the ground hurts. You’re a better pillow. Hold still.” You command him, wiggling out of his arms and back onto his chest. Ivar falls back with a forced grunt, hands splayed lazily at shoulder level over his bed in a hissing growl. A shieldmaiden should have been used to sleeping on the hard ground.

“You only come around when I’m drunk off my ass or you are. Why should I let you stay if you aren’t my woman?” Ivar remarks, getting a deep hum out of your lips. In fact, he didn’t even know your name and yet here you were, teasing the pendant of mjollnir on his chest. It wasn’t as if you didn’t know his. Ivar kept hold on his knife as you scooted up his chest, tucking your head just under his chin with a pleased smile.

“Makes your heart grow fonder.” You mumble. “Now shut up Boneless, I’m going to bed.”

Ivar listens as your breathing becomes gradually more quiet, stilling completely into soft little huffs on his chest. Yeah– he didn’t know your name… and by the next morning, he would still be looking for the lovely shield maiden with the scar across her nose.


	41. What Could Have Been

Hard raspy breathing filled his room within the Great Hall.

“What if Ivar does not go to Valhalla?” His son Reginald was beside his side, hands stroking across his withered skin. Tired but not gone, he leers at his son.

“Who are you to question the gods, coward?” Ivar says through harsh breaths. His chest was rising and falling with force of being so worked up. “You think because you are my son you can question them?”

“Father shhh.” His other son Halfdan intervened.

The old man slips his head back upon the pillow, eyes scanning the room he grew up in. The same bed that his mother nursed him in and in the coming days, the same bed he would pass in.

“Father, where do you think you will go? If the gods gave you the chance?” Another son, Olaf spoke.

Ivar run his tongue against his lower lip. “I have someone to see in Hel.”

Who?

* * *

__

_“Björn, there’s a disturbance outside.” His mother came in from outside._

_“What is it?”_

_“A girl.” His mother answered_

_A girl? That hardly seemed like reason for alarm and the annoyance was evident in Björn’s voice as he rose to stand. As the other brothers fell in line behind Björn, Ivar took dragged himself out. The closer he came to the heavy oak doors, he heard the jaunty tunes far more happy-go-lucky than he was used to. Music of celebration and glee._

_In the middle of such a celebration, there was a girl in ravenous deep red hues. Her feet barren save thinly wrought toe rings. Something no one else but the cripple would notice. The thin white underskirt of her dress flipped up, revealing the silky skin of her legs._

_“Dance! Dance!” The crowd cheered, but the girl leapt about when she caught sight of the princes._

_“Play with me!” She spun out towards Sigurd and grasped him by the hand on his oud. He stumbled into the formed circle as if he were a ghost. His fingers frozen against his instrument._

_But what was most striking about this girl was her insistence on dance. She was dancing alone! The realization brought Sigurd to play— and more musicians that were dragged in followed his lead._

_“What is she doing?” Ubbe’s gruff voice asked of Björn. His muscles were tight and focused; only failing when the girl leapt forward again, swiping Hvitserk and he of their places and into the middle._

_“Dancing.” Ivar grunts, lowering himself onto his forearms. His legs began to itch as she took the last of his brothers with other noblemen._

_She was like a bout of sunshine on an otherwise dark day. When he thought he was forgotten as he usually was, she leapt into a roll beside him. Mimicking his frown with one that was pathetic._

_“Do you know how to dance too?” Her chest heaves— exhaling harsh breath. Ivar fails at witholding a gawk._

_“I am a cripple.” He snorted._

_“So?” She said._

_“In case you haven’t noticed… I cannot dance.” Ivar can’t believe he has to say that. She crawls on her forearms to him._

_“You can’t dance because you think you can’t dance, boneless.” Before he can even retort— she ran away from him._

* * *

“A woman who wasn’t mother?”

The brothers were looking among one another. None had heard this story of this mystical dancer who came to Kattegat when their father was a young man.

“Did you love her more than mother?” Says another of the sons.

“Was she hot?” Inquires the gutterbrained boy Olaf.

“Very. Sigurd wanted her too.” Ivar smirks loosely in his bed. Long ago he came to grips with the fact that he would not die in Valhalla— it didn’t matter. The gods wanted his legacy to be one of inspiration, of pride. His burial mound would be one Vikings would talk of long after his death. He made a name for himself. The whole world feared the name Ivar the Boneless; just as father intended them to. As he intended them to.

“Then is that why you killed him?”

No. No no no no no.

* * *

__

_“Sigurd thinks you’re his.”_

_Everyone had their say in what he deserved. Hvitserk and Ubbe kept their words to themselves like the rat cowards they were. And Ivar? He was going with father to raid. This girl? She formed a confusing well under his skin. One of utter confusion._

_“Oh I know he does. Sweet Sigurd.” She flicks her fingers into the air, twisting her wrists as her curves dance in the wind. She hums a sweet song in her head as she moves._

_“(Y/N), why don’t you tell him you’re mine?” After that first day— Ivar became possessive. In a way he was not sure of. He just knew that he wanted the girl._

_“Because I’m not.” She said, hands shifting to touch her middle finger to her shoulder then hip. She turns in a circle and faces him on his stoop._

_“What do you mean you’re not? You spend time with me, you’re mine.” Ivar cannot understand this strange concept. She falls upon the ground in a flower of her heavy skirts. Beads of sweat gather about her forehead and he notices how bags gather under her eyes. Something should have tipped him off._

_“My love, I wish you could understand. I am free as a bird.” She spreads her hands out like a bird, flopping into the dewy grass of a field. Ivar drops back as well, temples touching. Free. He wondered, would a wedding ring make her feel free too?_

__

“There’s something… to be said about respect… as a man.” Ivar’s chest felt fluttery. As if a bird had nested in his rib cage. His breath became more labored. The brothers came closer. They could smell death on him. Ivar could too, such a scent that was embedded in every moment of a raid, campaign and revenge. Reginald, the most reminiscent of his father’s appearance, folded his arms.

“Then why was she not our mother?” Ivar’s ears were burning.

“I’ll be fine Boneless. I got my own axe and stuff.” She reclined over the ledge of the boat as Ragnar walked off. He noticed her colour getting pale but couldn’t account for it. Then just when he thought he had you figured out, you ruined it by leaning forward with your lips against his. Soft and supple regarding him affectionately.

Then it was gone. The ravens crowed.

“Father?” Father!

__

* * *

He was ripped out of a peaceful sleep on that boat when Sigurd and Ubbe took ahold of him. It was not just that… no, it was the fact that Ubbe had this look. The look he had when he was uncomfortable with saying something.

Sigurd, for all his pathetic faults, had none.

“She’s dying.”

In his cabin, she lay hot. Her body was veiled with the sheen of sweat under a white underdress. He knew something was wrong. His girl always wore the brightest of colours. On the trip with his father he saw many dead. The ones he killed, the ones about to be killed and the ones facing inevitable death.

“You’ll be fine… Boneless…” Her voice was a cragged whisper. Burnt at the ends with the plague that fell over Kattegat. One that (Y/N) had brought, swore the healer. That the youngest sons of Aslaug should not be here.

“You can’t go. I was going to propose to you.” Ivar says so matter of factly, that she gives the lightest and at the same time, harshest of laughs.

“So propose… I’ll.” A cough, “I’ll wait for you, Boneless.”

Ivar searched himself for the ring, traded for a few coins of Ecbert’s gold. This was contingent on the thought that he would not go to Valhalla beside his father. That he would continue onto Hel where they would eat, drink, fight and do all the things they did here. Not fight valiantly in Ragnarok. Ivar folds the pearl ring in his hand,

“With this ring, you’ll be my wife.” He unfolds his hand, sliding the ring onto hers.

“Until then… you should marry Freydis. She will make you a good wife.” She smiles with half lidded eyes. As they slide shut to rest, it would be the last time he met hers on Midgard.

 

Goodbyes were fragile things.

When Ivar awoke, his body was fresh. His skin no longer aged and prone to breaks or cuts. His bones still lacking bone but steadied by crutches of dark wood. He was a young man again, with braids pulled back in their binds.

There I will wait for my sons to join me. And when they do, there I shall bask in their tales of triumph.

The words were distant to his ear. This tunnel was distant… a fork in the road marked the paths that might be taken. His father’s words on one– but on the other, he heard a gentle trill.

_I’ll wait for you, Boneless._

The gates were white. The ones beside him glows an golden hue. But there was a call, deep in his heart, the longing to seek out the white, knowing in his heart that she had gone to Hel. There she could be free. She was no shieldmaiden, she had not made herself a hero. She would not be waiting for him in Valhalla. Yet… he knew he would never be happy in Hel. He was Viking! He was a berserker. But he made her a promise.

“Why are you faltering, my husband?” Behind him, a voice so reminiscent that he needed to turn to face it. She stood there in a dress of white. It bore an luminescent glow.

“(Y/N)… You waited.” He watches as you step to his side, wondering why– why you were out here. As you turn, he realizes why. Upon your back spurt white feathers, reminding him of the white swans his mother told him about once.

“You’re a Valkyrie.”

She smiles, dimples popping up so adorably that his heard stutters. It had been years. Nearly seventy years since he placed a flower crown upon her head and burned her.

“I told you. I’m as free as a bird.” Her voice is taken by sweet words. Then, as she steps up to him, Ivar raises his shaking hand up to her cheek.

“I’ve waited a long time.” He laments. “It took longer than I had planned. Why was that?”

She glances down. “I sacrificed my mortal body to Odin. So that you wouldn’t drown in England. Then… I was always with you.”

“Of course you were.” Sarcasm– or endearment, she couldn’t tell.

He was meant to die. He was meant to drown in the waters. Ivar’s mind races and races, pounding like the horses Valkyries were known for. He sheds tears– but none reach the surface. Instead she has kissed them away.

“Now, now. No time for that. I have mead to serve you in curved horns tonight. Tonight… you will tell your father of your conquests. And tonight, we’ll make love for the first time. Doesn’t that sound better?”

He takes her hand as the glimmering doors shriek open. He braces himself for the sight of vast halls; glimmering shields, friend and foe that would be there to greet him.

Ivar! His father and all of his brothers– even Sigurd– call out.

A contended sigh. “It is how it should have been, (Y/N).”


	42. Pouring Rain

You enjoyed this foreign place with their plain, beautiful people. The looks ranged, but of your favourites, those with hair as light as wheat. They were beautiful! Your own hair fell thick and heavy, braided back from your bright eyes as you bent beside a few little girls who marveled at your manner of dress. More specifically the golden chain that relieved the weight of such heavy gold chandelier earrings.

“It’s so shiny!” Her tiny hands poke one of the many diamonds glistening on your large nose ring, then looking at the septum ring decorated in sapphires that glittered when you moved.

“Where are you from?” The other little girl marvels at how the gold hooked into your hair and how the headdress that glittered on your hairline was her favourite.

“A long way aways. I met Prince Bjorn a long time ago.” You smile to the both of them, lips pursing.

“Come along girls!” Their mother called, causing you to rise to a stand. Your hands unclasp to wave at them when you hear heavy steps and an even heavier shush behind you. Immediately your hands fall to your veil, pulling it over your face.

A blond man steps forward, slender and tall with long hair tightly knit together in a wrap. The one they called Bjorn Ironside, you recall. He rounds about you, close, too close for your guards who stutter forward when your brother sides in, his skirt at his knees over pants. He motions his hand to will the guard down as Bjorn spins last second, those striking blue eyes as cool as the waters of home.

“Wait here.” Your eldest of brothers motion you to stay with the other brothers. Your hands stay at crisp golden edges of your veil, shaken from these Viking men who were for lack of another word– massive. As unsettling as it was for him, he leaves you with a bounty of guards who stood behind, hands lazily at the swords on their belts. The thinner sons of Ragnar mirrored them. All but one.

You fell onto your knees before the young prince, two guards on either side of you. Your bangles click as you wave to him. Your dark skin contrasts against the yellow gold. Ivar’s eyes glaze over your dress up to your dark ones lined a clean kohl and something to tint your upper eyelids. The veil isn’t dark enough that he can’t make out your features. Then you speak to him with a voice so thick with accent he has to listen close, leaning in against you. His brothers talk amongst each other, arms folded over one another. Bjorn picked him to marry this girl for a stupid reason– to keep him in check. If Torvi didn’t check his, what use would it be for him to marry?

 

Still… a wife? It sounded interesting.

“Hello Ivar the Boneless.”

You spoke his language? You knew his name. Ivar holds the lightest of grins, bangles sliding to your palms as you hold them on your lap. His eyes– they were of the finest blue you had ever seen. In fact! You had never seen blue eyes before, not before these brothers. But unlike his brother, the quality of them was too enticing to look away.

“Hello, Princess (Y/N)..” He whispers lowly. He keeps his hands to himself. Mother raised him like any good Viking. You were a free woman, he couldn’t just smack your ass and call you his. No, he didn’t even have permission to touch you. So he would wait, like a good man would. You can’t suppress a hot cheeked smile when he says your name, pronouncing it wrong. It’s fine, he’ll learn. You lean in with your hand at hovering above his cheek. Ivar flinches a second under your impending touch, any that isn’t given by his mother’s foreign to him. This would be different. It was his wedding day.

More importantly, it was your wedding day.

“Your eyes– they are so bright.” You say thickly, from behind the veil pulled over your face. It’s sheer enough that he could outline the glitter of your jewelry.

“They’re nothing special.” He answers as he turns his eyes to the floor, only to find your fingers creep just under his lower eyelid, caressing him in the gentlest of touches. Permission– you gave him permission to touch you by initiating such sweet touches.

“They are like the Sapphires in my palace.” You begin rather quickly, and the guards behind you shift as he leans closer. “I have never seen eyes more beautiful.”

Ivar wavers, lengthy eyelashes flicking as he turns away from you. “That is a lot of gold.” He deflects. “The one of your nose. Does it hurt?”

You know he’s staring at it. The heavy ring of pure metal connected to your ear. Another heavy clipped chain of fine pearls connects to your hair.

“This?” You smile. “No, no. My chains lessen the weight.”

He grunts as if he doesn’t quite believe it but nonetheless he is curious. He brings his fingers to the crisp edge of your veil, slipping it over your head. In your shock, you gasp so sharply that a guard barrels past Ubbe. He snaps the oldest of the boy’s attention to the flurry of creamy and ruddy skirts towards Ivar. The youngest of the princes lurches his hand to the axe on his belt and despite probably being able to handle himself, you lurch over him.

It was so quick. The seer of the blade down upon your intertwined bodies, the incapability for you to look away at the right time– and how quickly Ubbe ended it by running the man through with his thick blade. Hvitserk slips behind Ivar as Sigurd dropped to his knees, hands sodden in rouge blood.

“Aghhh!” Your voice is a strangled scream, shrieking harshly in a tongue that he doesn’t recognize. Both of the younger Ragnarssons seek to console you– but are somewhat thrown off when the guards lurch closer.

“Enough!” Bjorn echoes. Your brother echoes something similar, rushing forward as your hands cradle your face, painted by bloody red that has sliced your face nearly open. He slides his hands underneath your knees, rushing off with Bjorn in an unspecified direction to the youngest of brothers– painted by blood. Ivar’s tongue caresses the side of his mouth when Sigurd snapped his golden topped head back to him.

“I thought Bjorn said not to touch her.” Sigurd hisses back to the moments before arriving. Princesses weren’t to be touched– they were to be seen. Especially those from the places you came from. It was rare enough that Bjorn had convinced the man to create an alliance over marriage.

“She touched me first.” Ivar throws his hands up as if outraged. But in truth– it was a cover. A cover to hide the guilt of the blood that painted his pale face. His tunic was damp with blood, sticking to his chest.

Yet again, he brought his curse to be without love to another woman.

It had been a good few days since he intended to marry you. The gods must not have been smiling upon Ivar because the prince had been outraged. He demanded retribution– that no one would marry you now in your condition. It took some time to find out what ‘your condition’ was. The prince finally allowed him to come with, cringe, Sigurd to see Bjorn and you.

“Is she okay?” Ivar drags himself through the wooden planks of the room. His eyes itched under the white plume of incest that burned through a metal little pot. Bjorn sat there silently by your side. You were awake– but exhausted. Your hand rested against your stomach, one lone eye glaring up to the ceiling. The other eye was covered by warm cloth.

“We don’t know how bad it is.” Bjorn answers. “She can’t see out of it.”

Ivar pulls himself onto a chair beside you, looking to a small statue Dhanvantari that sits beside you. Your chest is harshly lifting and dropping under the sheets, dark skin limp against your breast. He knows you can hear him– because you turn your head over to look at him. Ivar’s jaw is tight as he sits there, deciding the right words to say.

“She almost died. I can marry her instead.” He says gruffly. “I’m the one who should have in the first place.”

Bjorn shifts with his braid curving against his back. He holds a statue of Eir in his hand, twisting its splintery body in its hand. Her thick hair curves against her cheek as she lays there in disarray.

“I’ll do it.” Ivar folds his arms over and over. “The gods know how much you care about your wives.”

The brothers exchange harsh looks when you spread your lips open, your voice raspy and thick by pain. 

“No… I’ll keep Ivar.” You huff and raise your shaking hand to the cloth on your eyes. Pulling it away, Bjorn jerks back to sit in his chair. Ivar begins a smile when you speak of secrets that Bjorn had told you in the past.

“I’d hate to remind you of old things.”


	43. Glass is an Ass!

“This is taking too long.” Sigurd brings his thick watch that sat on his willowy wrist up to his eye.

“Well FUCKASS if you hadn’t pushed me, we wouldn’t be here, would we?” Ivar hisses, resting on his side in a dark blue, hardly cushioned seat. The others in the room were staring at the brothers. A small girl that was giggling like a gremlin, an older man smirking at the sight of his wound.

“It’s your fucking fault for not letting me call an ambulance. Don’t be an ungrateful prick. ASSHOLE.” Sigurd bites back, whipping out his phone to ignore Ivar, who was attempting to sit as still as stone on one hip on the chair. The staff at the front desk tends to a large line– but one delightfully chubby nurse calls out his name with a small clearing of her tongue.

“Ivar Ragnarsson!”

The brothers banter almost immediately. Ivar takes his crutches up and begins to get up when his older brother hooks his arms underneath Ivar’s arms. It sets off the wildfire in Ivar’s eyes immediately.

“I don’t need help!” Ivar protests with his older brother dragging him across the fake, creamy tiles towards a great coffee coloured door. He ignores his little brother’s wiggling.

“You have a glass in your ass. You’re already a cripple, how are you going to walk, huh?” Sigurd snaps. “I hope they shoot you up with a tranquilizer, you bitch.”

“Fuck you.” Ivar goes limp in his brother’s arms, stewing angrily when the nurse clears her throat with purpose. She stands there in cute, grey and black scrubs. The deep grey scrubs are slightly form fitting, with a black array of flowers against the edge of her top. She lifts his eyebrows upon her forehead, rather cutely around the braids that pull down over her breast.

“Do you want him to leave?” She says as she guides Sigurd into a room. She brings a station with a computer into the room and assists Sigurd in helping Ivar onto a hospital bed on his stomach. Like Ivar could tell Sigurd to go away. Ubbe was busy with his two sets of twins and Hvitserk had gone with Bjorn on a business trip. And well– he wasn’t going to call his mother because he got a shard of glass in his ass.

“He can wait outside.” Ivar grumbles. No complaints from his brother. Sigurd treds out to go raid the cafeteria instead. Behind him, Sigurd leaves what should have been a wave of awkwardness. After all they had been bickering the whole time. That was probably why the staff had pushed him into treatment quicker than some other patients.

Or maybe because he was bleeding on their less-than-expensive but needing to stay good for the next thirty year chairs. She pulls the station over, her black nonslip sneakers squeaking on the tile.

“May I have your date of birth?” She says softly.

“May 20th.” Ivar mumbles the year begrudgingly after, turning his face from the opposite direction to look at her. She’s still as stone, which, Ivar thinks is a bit too late for the smear of black across her lower eyelids.

“Very good, Mr. Ragnarsson.” She stands up. “No lightheadedness, nausea, vomitting or–”

“Bleeding out the ass?” Ivar says sharply. “Because if so, yes.”

But she doesn’t laugh. The corners of her dark red painted lips pull into a slight quiver, but nothing else. She only lifts her heavy hooded eyes at him as if to demand he go on. They’re shot with red tinging around normally white sclera.

“No. What is your name?” He asks the pretty girl. She was pretty– despite the obvious signs of disrepair. She goes to prepare something at a nearby station, sliding a white card with a picture that was far uglier than she was in person. She was pretty, did he say that already? All the pretty ones have this affect on him. He could go from raging to silent. In her hair, she has an adorably crystal bright clip of a tropical flower in white crystal.

“(Y/N).” She answers, setting items ontop of a tray. She comes over with freshly washed and gloved hands then proceeds to his side. Her fingers hook against the edge of his basketball shorts.

“I’m going to examine it now, is that okay?” She says softly.

“Sure, as long as you don’t cry, mm?” Ivar looks over his shoulder to her hardened eyes. “But the doctor already did when we came in. The scruffy looking one with hazel eyes?”

He had been adamant, sneering up his aquiline nose at Ivar. It was nothing to be concerned about. It was just a little blood. He had the right nurse that would stitch him up picture perfect. No one would be able to tell that his dumbass brother had thrown him into glass when they were fighting– like usual.

“Okay.” She says. Yet it sounds like a shake; like her whole world was about to collapse into a million bite sized pieces like the one that was embedded in his fine white ass. She draws his shorts down, the cool air over his curved ass tickles– but nothing like when she bent low against him. Drops of cool water slip over him and he quickly realizes that it isn’t any sort of fluid to ward off infection of make his life easier.

“Are you okay?” Ivar asks stoically enough, thinking that maybe if he was as hard as she was; she might come forward with information. Instead she tries to will the tears away, beginning to take out slivers of glass from his ass.

“I’m okay. Really.” She says.

“If that isn’t a crock of shit, I don’t know what is.” He responds seconds later. He tries to keep himself from squirming as she does. “Besides, I’m the one getting glass picked out of my ass by a fucking bombshell of a nurse. You’d think I should be the one crying.”

Her hands leave his butt for a moment when she giggles. A sickly sweet giggle, low and amused under her tongue. Bloody shards sit to the side of her on a snowy white napkin. She’s plucked free nearly all of them; leaving his ass beating red and aching sore.

“Mr. Ragnarsson, has anyone ever told you how much you talk?” She asks, stifling the laugh that wants to break free.

He leers back at her. “My brothers.” Ivar responds, pouting out his lip and bobbing his head slightly. “Not every day it happens. Or that I see something so pretty crying either. You gonna talk or you prefer to dig into my cheeks instead?”

With the last plucked free, she sets down her tool, walking herself on her rolling stool over to his face. “That would be something I could be reported for.” She says as if she is about to trust him with some heavy knowledge.

“Trust me, I don’t mean to keep coming to the hospital and have the other women pick at me. Did you see my choices? They’re not good.” He mocks, reaching out to tip up her chin with a thick knuckle. The laugh burst forward from (Y/N)’s lips and she suddenly gives into his wiles. Maybe, just maybe she trusted him.

“Wanna talk of your bitch ex over coffee?” He suggests.

“That would also be something I could be reported for.” She sets her manicured hands to her lap, teasing the lavender nail polish on her fingers once pulling the old gloves free and chucking it into its proper disposal box.

“Not if I’m not your patient.” Ivar grins cheekily. She rolls to the sink to wash and reglove to finish sanitizing his wound with the proper gels and bandages.

“You’re still my patient right now.” She says as she taped down the bandage. She hardly finishes when he takes the tape of her fingers to finish himself, then pulls his basketball shorts up over his ass.

“Not anymore.” Ivar grunts, scooting toward the edge of the bed with his crutch and stubbornly off. Then, he looks back to her as he stands upright with his crutch. “When does your shift end?”

She swishes over to her computer station for a rosy sharpie, coming back and taking his thick forearm. Squeaking name and number across his skin, she smiles at him. “I get off at eight.” She smiles. Eight it was. Ivar does his best strut out of that room, feeling like someone stabbed him in the ass… which quite literally had happened.

“All done?” Sigurd asks. Ivar flicks his wrist to his older brother.

“Now I am.” He grins toothily, starting down the hall when Sigurd chases after him.

“…how?!” Sigurd snaps.

“Shut up and get me home quickly.” Ivar remarks, looking straight down the hall to where a certain hazel eyed doctor met a blonde in a kiss. Ivar can’t beat back the smile on his face. “I have a date at eight with a hot nurse.”


	44. More Than Innocent

He’s always had a crush on the girl. She’s soft spoken but firm, never letting anyone push him around. Despite the fact that he never needed defending, he finds it sweet that this girl in cherry red skirts and snowy white thigh highs with adorable red bows always defends him. One winter morning, he realizes something is off.

“(Y/N) you don’t have stockings today.” He hears Ubbe note over the dull, fake wood table. Despite only be passing with a pack of sour gummies she bubbles up, pulling the creamy sweater over her palms. She hops up onto the table, obnoxiously brushing the hand that tacked away on his laptop with a flutter of her skirt and precious smooth skin.

“Because I got something special!” She trills.

“Special?” Ubbe looks to Hvitserk, questioning him with his eyes as if to ask if he knew.

“Take a look!” She turns to dangle her foot into Ubbe’s lap. A twinge of jealousy– okay, maybe a strike of electricity sears through his skin. She giggles, twiddling her toes in the black flats she wears today. Ubbe looks to her foot curiously but then, he finds what he’s looking at.

“You got a tattoo?” Ivar notices before Ubbe does. His voice a cross between shocked, amused and… almost upset. Your beautiful virginal skin was cut by a lovely dye. He misses the virgin-like skin but he can’t deny that it opens a whole new realm of possibilities. Maybe, he thinks, just maybe…

You turn your head over to look at Ivar with a swish of your long braid.

“Isn’t it pretty?” You ask him so eagerly that he can only dumbly agree. Whatever it was– a line of flowers, runes or a tattoo from your newest obsession, the glee of your smile shuts his snappy lips up.

“It’s kinky.” The words escape his lips before he can shut them up– cursing himself that very moment for saying it. Your eyes have gone wide and bright with a rim of white as they catch his. Hvitserk’s balking laugh cuts your awkward moment and you jump off the table, backing up into someone.

“I think I’m going to be late for class!”

You didn’t even have class Thursdays.


End file.
